


Your Blood Runs Into Mine

by jaybirddraws (simplestorange)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Family, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Mentioned Cid nan Garlond, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Post-Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal, Rating May Change, References to Depression, Tags May Change, basically. like. it's never discussed but its cancer, visiting your dying father for closure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26830852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplestorange/pseuds/jaybirddraws
Summary: G'raha Tia gets a letter from Ilsabard. His father is dying.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch & Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 31
Kudos: 99





	1. Ink and Consequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im continuing the paternal prompt from ffxivwrite2020 or i will DIE trying
> 
> this first chapter is just the prompt fill, so if you've already read that there's nothing new here

The day the letter came was otherwise unremarkable. G’raha woke up next to the Warrior of Light, brushed his teeth, washed his face, took his breakfast with Krile while A’chago slept in, practiced his magic against Y’shtola’s pure force of will and Alisaie’s sword. It was simple. He only wishes it could have stayed that way. 

He grips the letter in his hands with both hands, crinkling the parchment. It smells like charcoal and dust, the rough white paper smudged with black marks where his mother’s tears had smeared the words. 

_Your father is not long for this world. Please come home._

At first, he didn’t believe it. He hasn’t heard from his father in years, not since he’d taken G’raha aside and asked him, not unkindly, if he’d rather leave the tribe instead of continuing to be tormented by the other children. G’raha, all of twelve summers and bitterly confused as to why his father didn’t just make the other kids _stop,_ had angrily agreed in the misguided assumption that his absence would be some form of punishment against his parents and they’d soon beg him back. An assumption that, after his first two summers away from home with nary a letter, quickly turned to ashes.

He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of abandonment since the day he realized that they weren’t going to ask him back. They truly believed him happier as an outcast, and he’d never given them any reason to think otherwise. 

Some distant, childish part of him still lashes out, insists that they should have known. He’s beyond such moral quandaries, though, has established himself and built a life he can be proud of all on his own. Nothing he has accomplished could have been done without first being sent away. 

Here they were asking him to come back. And with his father on his deathbed no less. 

“Raha?” Krile asks, laying her small hand on his arm. G’raha looks away from the letter and turns to her. Her expression is open, sympathetic, like she already knows the contents. If she hasn’t outgrown her habit of reading his mail, she might. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

It’s something she used to tell him all the time in their days at the Studium, whenever he was working himself to the bone to prove his worth against the yalmstick of other students who had unkind words about his heritage, his ability, his knowledge, or whatever else they decided to mock on any given day. 

But what _does_ he want to do? The thought of returning to Ilsabard, to the G tribe, sits uncomfortably in his stomach. The thought of _not_ returning makes his heart ache. He doesn’t hate his father enough to deny the man his dying wish, or at all, truthfully. It’s just-

“Complicated,” he says, folding the letter neatly in half. “It’s complicated. I’m not sure I know what I want.” 

Krile nods knowingly and gently pats the hand holding his letter. “Do any of us know what we want?” she asks. “Perhaps the most we can do is fumble along until we find something that feels right.”

He hums thoughtfully, tapping the folded letter against the table. Krile pats his arm once more, then leaves him to think. She knows he thinks clearest when he’s alone. 

Or is that yet another thing he can attribute to his childhood? Does he genuinely prefer to be alone, or did he simply spend so much time being lonely that he lied to himself and claimed to enjoy it? 

Between growing up and spending a century in almost total isolation he’s spent an awful lot of time on his own. 

So should he not feel encouraged to choose the option that fosters connection? Should he not want to rekindle his relationship with his family? Here is an olive branch, and he, like the dove, has been given the option to either take it or scorn it. Would taking it mean that part of him is still desperate for acceptance from those who’ve made it clear they don’t want him? Would scorning it mean they were right to send him away at all? 

He does wish to see his father. If only to look upon the man who sired him and tell him he managed to make a good life for himself, entirely on his own terms, without his parents. If his mother speaks true, this may be the last time he ever gets the chance to do so. 

Someone drops a pan in the kitchen and it clatters to the ground, making him jump. When he turns in his seat, A’chago is standing with his hands on his hips and looking disappointedly at the pan on the floor. 

G’raha gets out of his seat and goes over to help. He bends at the waist to pick up the pan and hands it back to A’chago. “Lo, the Warrior has returned to the land of the living,” he murmurs. 

A’chago blocks out the light with one hand but cracks a smile nonetheless. “‘Morning,” he grunts, voice croaky. “Unfortunately.”

He sets the pan on the stovetop and fetches two eggs from the fridge, wordlessly holding up another pair above his head to G’raha. 

“I already ate with Krile,” G’raha answers him, leaning against the countertop. “During the true hours of morning. Like any seeker worth his salt.” 

A’chago grunts and shuffles over to the pan. He sets the eggs down beside the stove and puts a slice of butter in the pan, lighting the stove underneath. “‘M mixed,” he says. “Dunno how much. Enough to loathe mornings.” 

He hadn’t known that, but it would explain a lot: the length of his tail, the tiny hint of fangs in his mouth. G’raha wonders what A’chago’s childhood must have been like. He only knows bits and pieces, like he has a twin sister named Mesca and his older sister was a professor at Sharlyan-the man’s more secretive than _him_ when it comes to his past. Did he get along with the children in his tribe?  
Did he feel loved by his family? What made him come to Eorzea?

Does he also know the weight of abandonment?

‘ “What are they like? Your parents?” he asks, carefully trying to extract a story from his partner. 

A’chago swirls the butter around in the pan. “Good people. Real good. They didn’t always do right by us kids, but they tried their best.” 

Something like kinship flares in G’raha’s chest.

“They love me. Support me in whatever I want to do. Even when I was being an utter terror, they always stood by my side.”

The little flame goes out. A’chago didn’t grow up like him. While part of him is grateful, the rest of him feels even more hopelessly alone. How is it that even surrounded by a room full of people, G’raha always manages to feel lonely?

“I get the feeling that this isn’t about me,” A’chago continues, cracking the eggs and dumping them in the pan. “What did you get in the mail?”

G’raha looks at the letter folded between his index and middle finger. The rest of the room seems to bend around it, suddenly, like it’s enchanted. “A letter from my mother,” he replies tonelessly. 

Somehow, with that uncanny perceptiveness of his, A’chago seems to understand the weight of his words. He merely hums and flips his omelette, waiting for G’raha to continue. 

The thought of continuing seems monumental. But he’s never shied from a challenge before. “She wants me to return to Ilsabard. My father’s dying.” The words sound flat in his voice, like he’s talking about the weather. 

“It’s going to be difficult to get there, with the travel ban,” A’chago comments. He pokes at the omelette and it sizzles. 

“I’m not going.”

He’s expecting A’chago to fight him, convince him to go, tell him it’s his _father,_ of course he needs to go back-instead, A’chago slides the omelette onto his plate and shrugs. “Okay,” he says.

The apathy of it all suddenly strikes him. Here he is, having quite possibly the greatest conundrum of his second chance at life, and all A’chago can think to say is ‘okay’? The Warrior of Light is the chattiest man alive, where are his words now?

“That’s all you have to say?” he demands, following A’chago as he goes to sit at the table. “Nothing else? Can you even _look_ at me?”

A’chago sets his fork and knife down and looks G’raha in the eye, then gestures for him to sit as well. “This is your decision,” he says once G’raha’s seated. “I’ll support you in whatever you choose. Do you want me to convince you to go?”

Does he? G’raha’s stomach turns. The sulfuric scent of the eggs is nauseating. He doesn’t know how A’chago can stand them. 

He doesn’t want to go. He desperately does. Gods, he never had to make these kinds of decisions as the Exarch! There were plenty of difficult calls, but those were never so deeply personal. Then, he had a job to do: bring A’chago over to save the world, then die. That was _it._ His personal desires didn’t matter. Everything else was merely a consequence. 

A’chago reaches out and covers his hand with one of his own. “Raha. Should I get Krile?”

“No,” G’raha snaps, drawing his hand back. Krile wouldn’t understand. A’chago couldn’t understand. Nobody did. He’d have to do this alone. 

“You’re getting in your head again. Quit it. Talk to me,” A’chago says, pushing his plate aside to give G’raha his full attention. “Raha, what’s going on?”

Irritation made his tail bristle, but he didn’t want to be needlessly cruel. This was his own issue, he’d deal with it alone. He settles for telling a half-truth. “I’m a little conflicted, but rest assured, it’s none of your concern.”

“No more secrets, Raha, don’t give me that publicity answer.”

By the gods, he was infuriating. Nobody else could see through his facades except for Krile. The thought of the two of them teaming up against him made his jaw twitch. He’d never get a moment’s peace again. 

He knows he needs to be vulnerable. It’s the most painful path, but it’ll also be the most rewarding. It’s just so godsdamned difficult. 

With startling clarity, he knows what he has to do. The realization washes over him like a spell. The answer has been staring him in the face this entire time. 

A’chago smiles. “Figure it out? Care to share with the class?”

G’raha leans back in his chair. Krile was telling the truth, he just needed to fumble around until he found something that felt right. He answers A’chago’s question with one of his own. “Will you come with me to Ilsabard?”


	2. Or the Years That Passed in the Blink of an Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “And I’ve already told you, sir, Warrior or no, we can’t afford to send our most powerful operative into enemy territory-it’ll be seen as a blatant attack! We’d bring the force of the entire empire down around our heads!” 
>> 
>> A’chago claps his hands together in front of his face. “They won’t even notice us.”  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so impatient i had to sit on my hands to keep from posting like immediately after the last chapter but we're here in Ilsabard! :eyes:

They set out on a too-warm, too-humid day, uncharacteristic for Mor Dhona’s typically frigid temperatures. G’raha pulls off his scarf to drape it loosely around his shoulders, unfolded, and tries to ignore the rolling nausea in his stomach. He tightens the straps on the saddlebag. 

It almost doesn’t feel real. Any of it: the letter, A’chago’s willingness to accompany him, the packs that saddle both Liliana and Tycoon as they prepare to set off. He wipes the sweat off his brow after he gives the straps one final tug. Tycoon tucks his head down and nips at his bangs, chirping quietly. G’raha responds by stroking over his bright golden feathers. If anything else, at least it soothes the bird.

He really doesn’t know what to expect. His knees buckle just slightly at the thought-he has no idea what he’s doing. Is this the right course of action?

“Well, that’s the last of it,” A’chago says, strolling into the stables and dusting his hands off. “Nothing left but to say goodbye.” 

G’raha’s hands are still on Tycoon’s neck. This is really happening. They’re going to Ilsabard. He swallows roughly. 

A’chago mistakes his silence for martyrdom. “You weren’t planning to run off without saying goodbye to anyone, were you? Krile would throw a fit.”

“No, it’s not that,” G’raha replies. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving without saying goodbye. I wouldn’t dream of leaving, if I were to be completely honest.” 

A’chago wraps his arms around his waist and kisses the nape of G’raha’s neck. “We don’t have to go. You can go back inside, I’ll unpack.” 

The thought is sorely tempting, but G’raha knows just by the taste of _yes_ on his tongue that he won’t. He rests his hands over A’chago’s own and sighs. “No. We should leave soon, and make the most of the daylight.” 

He tilts his head back and stares at the wooden beams of the stable. It’s a barn that they’d built themselves, the Scions and the people of Mor Dhona, after they realized the steady trickle of new adventurers that followed G’raha’s membership would need somewhere to stow their birds. It had been a true barn raising, with drinks and merriment and storytelling round the bonfire. At the time it had dredged up all too painful memories of the people he’d lost in the post-calamity future and the people he’d left behind on the First, but now he was just thankful that he got to add another family to his belt. 

He wonders if that’s the crux of his being. A man, composed of history and legacy, collecting families ever since he’d been pushed out of the only one he should have been able to claim. And now he was to return. 

“Okay,” A’chago murmurs. “Let’s get going.” He moves from behind G’raha to take his hand and lead him back outside. 

The Scions are all gathered just outside the stables and G’raha immediately sets his shoulders against the familiar twinge of embarrassment when their eyes meet. It’ll probably take the rest of his natural lifespan to get used to living without his hood. 

He finds nothing but sympathy and encouragement in their gazes, however, and it reminds him that no matter how complicated his own relationship with his family might be, these people have markedly similar experiences. They’ve also had to carve out a family wherever they could find it instead of wherever they were born. 

His struggles are miserably common. It’s both comforting and heartbreaking. 

“Did you remember to pack the tents? Oh, and the bedrolls?” Tataru is badgering A’chago worriedly, scampering about and double-checking their packs. Next to her, Krile chuckles.

“Raha,” she addresses, turning to him. “You be safe now, alright? I’ve lost too many friends for you to go disappearing _again._ ” She folds her arms and stares him down, using the full force of her signature glare. 

Under the weight of her gaze a lesser man might crumble. Desensitized as he is, G’raha merely gives her an uncertain smile. “No promises,” he says, which really means _I’ll be home soon_ and she rolls her eyes which means _I know. I love you._

For a moment he wants to bring her along-just for somebody familiar, the first family he ever collected. The first real friend he’d ever had. He could still ask her, he knows she’d drop everything for him if he only asked, and maybe he would if he didn’t know that she was planning a vacation with Tataru. He wasn’t so selfish as to intrude upon her happiness. 

Or his own, for that matter. He won’t lie: part of him is excited at the prospect of getting a week or two alone with A’chago, even if the reason is morbid. He glances at A’chago, who’s suffering through a headlock affectionately given by Thancred. 

Urianger sidles up next to him. “Family is oft a complicated matter,” the elezen says softly. “I desire yond thy journey is a comforting one.” He doesn’t look at G’raha as he says it, but he does sigh in a way most unbecoming of his usually well-to-do self. When he speaks again, it’s with a slight tremor. “Would that mine own sire hadst asked for my return upon his deathbed. Thee hath’t been given a most wondrous opportunity. I desire’t endues thee closure.” 

There’s a story there, but G’raha won’t press for it. Instead, he wraps a hand around his wrist and exhales hard through his nose. “Thank you,” he says. 

They finish saying their goodbyes, give their packs one last once-over at Tataru’s behest, then saddle up and set out. A’chago can’t teleport all of them straight to Ghimlyt Dark, so they have to travel through Gridania and across Ala Mhigo-roughly two days’ journey. After that, it’s just a matter of hopping the border and heading north of Terncliff. 

Sneaking into the Garlean Empire to visit his dying father. Simple enough. 

As it turns out, it _wasn’t_ simple enough. It was nowhere near simple enough. Firstly, they’d landed themselves in a storm that followed them all the way through Gridania, then while crossing Ala Mhigo they’d gotten into a nasty scrape with a very vicious, very large spider. After that they’d managed to get all the way to Ghimlyt Dark unscathed, but even with tensions cooling on the battlefield as the Garlean Empire ate itself inside out in political instability, they were still barred from passing the border. G’raha shakes some feeling back into his legs and passes the reins of both Liliana and Tycoon from one hand to the other as he waits for A’chago to finish up. 

“I’m the Warrior of Light, it’ll be _fine,_ ” A’chago insists, arguing with the gate guard, some poor Resistance fellow who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. 

“And I’ve already told you, sir, Warrior or no, we can’t afford to send our most powerful operative into enemy territory-it’ll be seen as a blatant attack! We’d bring the force of the entire empire down around our heads!” 

A’chago claps his hands together in front of his face. “They won’t even notice us.”

“They won’t notice the bleeding _Warrior of Light-_ ”

G’raha tunes out the rest of the conversation. If they can’t go, they can’t go. He should’ve expected this. He wonders how the hell his mother got a letter to him if border security is this strict. 

To entertain himself, he looks around Ghimlyt Dark. The perpetual smoke that A’chago claimed covered the entire sky had started to clear, but he could still see plumes of it rising in the distance. Otherwise, it looks as he expected: like a battlefield headquarters. There’s crates of supplies piled haphazardly around, a large tent that covers a mock-up of the field. He’d read about A’chago’s battle here when he was trying to summon him, but it was different to actually step foot on the soil where it happened. Just a few malms from here he’d nearly gotten A’chago killed. A’chago will carry that scar with him for the rest of his life. 

“G’raha Tia?!” a shocked voice interrupts his thoughts. G’raha turns toward the sound of his name and sees none other than Cid nan Garlond walking alongside a woman with red hair, both gawking at him. 

“Cid,” he replies, equally as surprised. Last he’d heard, the man was off building giant mechanical warriors. 

Cid wraps him in a bearhug before he has the chance to say anything else, lifting him off his feet. “You goddamn-how the hell did you wake up? Why are you _here?_ ”

It strikes him that he’d never explicitly told Cid that he’d awoken. Between saving the First and waking up on the Source, it had just slipped his mind. Guiltily, he realizes that he spent time going to the Moonfire Faire but hadn’t thought of contacting his friend. 

It’s hard to speak when all the air in his lungs has been crushed out, but G’raha manages. “It’s a long story,” he wheezes, coughing when Cid sets him back down. “And one better told over a strong flagon of mead. How have you been, my friend?”

“Wasting company money on his pet projects,” the red-headed woman interrupts, folding her arms crossly. “Not feeding himself regularly. ”

“Now, Jessie,” Cid says, holding up his hands to placate her. “I’ve been well. We’ve been working in Terncliff recently, fighting against some of the Garlean’s nasty new creations.” At this, he hesitates, like he wants to tell G’raha more but isn’t sure how much of it is confidential. G’raha wants to know more, but doesn’t know how to tell him that it’s okay, he’s a scion, his partner is the Warrior of Light, and he’s saved the world. Saving the world might not qualify him to hear about top secret military affairs, though. 

While they’re deliberating, A’chago marches back over, grabs G’raha by the scarf, plants his face into his chest, and screams in frustration. Afterward he pulls back and smooths his scarf down like nothing happened. “What?” he asks, noticing G’raha’s shocked face. 

Cid coughs uncomfortably. 

“Cid!” A’chago jumps, whirling around. “And Jessie! What a delight, just the two people I wanted to see. Say, are you two heading to Terncliff?”

Cid and Jessie exchange a look, some kind of nonverbal argument clearly occurring. It goes on for a few seconds, but then Jessie gives up and shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m not,” she says firmly. 

“But I am,” Cid adds with a conspiratory grin. 

Getting the chocobos onto the airship is the hardest part. Liliana was apprehensive, but Tycoon was downright disagreeable, bucking and rearing even as G’raha brought out the specialty greens. He only managed to get the bird on board by pulling out the grubs he usually reserved for special occasions. 

Exhausted, G’raha slumps against the wall of the airship. Tycoon stares at him cooly, still chewing. _Loser,_ he seems to say. G’raha rolls his eyes and pushes himself back up, walking over to where A’chago is excitedly chattering away to Cid. 

“Raha! Perfect, I was just catching Cid up on everything that’s happened,” A’chago says warmly, rubbing his back. 

“So, you really woke up two hundred years in the future?” Cid asks, giving him a sideways glance from where he’s steering the airship over the rolling blue ocean.

G’raha nods. “It was actually Ironworks who woke me up and who sent me to the First. Biggs III and his team. They were a truly remarkable group of people.”

Remarkable doesn’t even begin to cover it. Hardy, determined, focused, scarred, and so fiercely optimistic despite it all. He has a million accolades to give them, and not enough time by far with which to do it. He should write about them. 

He is the only one who possibly could, he realizes. No one will ever meet them. No one will ever know them. No one will understand why he gets homesick for the scent of lavender and chives, or why he only drinks chai with extra cardamom. It makes his heart ache, like it always does. It’s an old wound, and one he suspects he will never stop nursing. 

Cid must notice the storm clouds on his face because he mercifully changes the subject. “So, what’s this? Why are we sneaking you two into Garlean territory?”

Another difficult topic! G’raha winces internally, trying to think of the best way to phrase _My father’s dying_ without drawing too much sympathy. 

A’chago thankfully swoops in. “A bit of a Memoria Misera, minus the headfuckery,” he answers quickly. “You know how it is.”

Those words must mean something to Cid, because understanding blooms over his features and he nods. “I’m sorry,” he offers to G’raha. “Fathers are...complicated at best, downright enigmatic most of the time.”

“Yes, well, I figured I’d take my own crack at it,” G’raha says breezily. “Never thought I’d be returning to Ilsabard.”

In the distance, the bright white cliffs of Terncliff appear. It looks small, tucked away on the rocky coast. What lies beyond is malms of taiga, and in the depths of that, the G tribe. G’raha suddenly feels like the forest is going to swallow him whole. Anticipation curls at the base of his spine, makes his tail lash nervously. 

“Good luck,” Cid snorts. “You’re going to need it. The provinces have been quiet, but there’s still regular patrols. They won’t hesitate to throw the Warrior of Light and his companion at Zenos’s feet.” 

At the mention of Zenos, G’raha discreetly checks for a reaction from A’chago. He’s frowning, but it looks more like annoyance than fear. “The G tribe is isolated, the imperials typically left us alone,” G’raha tells Cid. “I’m hopeful that that aspect has not changed.”

Cid nods his assent, and pulls the airship in to dock alongside the cliffs. As they disembark, he calls out over his shoulder, “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to linkpearl me. I’ll be in the area for a few weeks.”

A’chago looks up from where he’s wrangling their chocobos off the deck and grins. “You got it, boss!” he says cheerfully. G’raha takes Tycoon’s reins from him and waves to Cid. The man salutes them both with a wave, then walks over to a group of Ironworks engineers. 

When G’raha looks around to get his bearings, he realizes how quiet Terncliff is. There’s only ambient noise from the gulls and the waves against the cliffs below them. There’s nobody outside, either, save for the Ironworks engineers and a few Resistance patrols. It’s disconcerting. 

Other than the unsettling silence, the town itself is very pretty. The white buildings are trimmed with blue detailing and stand tall amongst cobblestone roads. There’s a lot of archwork. He can vaguely tell that it’s inspired by a civilization he learned about during his studies, but he can’t for the life of him remember the name. 

He wanders toward the low stone walls that bar people from falling off the cliffs. There’s more foliage here, behind the buildings, and the view is _incredible._

“Have you ever seen so much ocean?” A’chago asks, coming up beside him. Liliana and Tycoon busy themselves with tasting the bushes behind them. G’raha lifts his arm and A’chago slips neatly underneath it, wrapping his arms around G’raha’s waist. “It looks like the end of the world. Like there’s nothing out there except for water.”

“And us,” G’raha adds. Him, the water, and _A’chago._ Them, a team. 

“And us,” A’chago agrees. He rests his head on G’raha’s shoulder and gazes out at the blue expanse. 

The angle is too close for G’raha to see much more than his hair, but he admires him nonetheless. If he never gets to keep anything else in the entire world, please, Twelve, let him keep this. Them. 

Tycoon lets out a garbled squawk behind them. They both jump away from each other and turn to see the chocobo reeling backward, flapping angrily as Liliana investigates a bush. G’raha shoots an inquisitive glance toward A’chago, who answers with a nod. 

“What d’you have there, girl?” A’chago asks, inching toward the bush. Liliana _kwehs_ in response, shaking her feathers out then zeroing back in on the bush like it’d personally wronged her. 

As he approaches, G’raha realizes that it’s a _woman_ curled up underneath the leaves-and she’s badly injured. “Ma’am,” he says, dropping to his knees and tapping her calf insistently. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

The woman groans sluggishly, shifting away from him. A’chago holds the shrub back to allow G’raha easier access. 

It’s revealed that the woman’s leg has a sizable gash in it, long and deep, and stretching from mid-thigh to the back of her knee. Her Garlean uniform is torn around it. He shares a trepidatious look with A’chago, who shrugs. Taking it as an assent, he kneels and approaches her. 

“Ma’am, I’m going to heal you,” G’raha tells the woman. She doesn’t give any response other than a pained moan, so G’raha unhooks his staff and casts a quick cure. He slaps a regen on after it just to be safe. 

Watching the skin heal after an injury is morbidly fascinating, but thankfully, her wound closes easily. Her energy returns, too, and she kicks him in the head with her good leg as hard as she can before cornering herself against the building. He yelps in pain, and A’chago moves to unsheathe his sword. 

“Who are you,” she hisses at them, brandishing a small knife she seemingly pulled out of nowhere. “What do you want? Are you come to take me as prisoner?”

“No, not at all,” G’raha answers, touching his head gingerly. It’ll leave a bruise. He holds his hands out in front of him in a placating manner. “You were injured. We healed you.” 

“This is the part where you thank him,” A’chago says lightly. He shuts up when G’raha glares at him. 

The woman, an Au Ra with coily pink hair and dark skin, looks between the two of them distrustfully. “You’re Eorzean,” she observes. “Your accents.”

G’raha keeps his voice low when he responds. “Yes, but we mean you no harm. You’re injured. We can help you, bring you to the Eorzean Alliance-”

“No!” the woman gasps, shrinking further away from him. “And be tortured for information? Be forced to give up my brothers and sisters? Betray my legion? I’d sooner die!” 

A’chago tenses behind him, fingers twitching. G’raha throws a hand behind him to keep him at bay. _Don’t,_ he says with a single look. _Fine,_ A’chago says back. 

“I have to go home,” the woman says agitatedly. She braces herself against the wall and struggles to stand. “I have to-to return to my _family_ -”

“Your family abandoned you,” A’chago states. G’raha flinches, and so does the woman. 

“I don’t care!” she snarls. Her knees wobble, but she’s managed to pull herself to her feet, even if she’s leaning heavily against the wall and trembling. “I am going _home._ Do not try to stop me, Eorzean, or you will taste the steel of my blade.” It’s a wholly unconvincing threat, given that when she tries to take a step she nearly falls once more. 

“At least let us give you some supplies,” G’raha says gently, rising to his feet as well. “Alright?” He turns to A’chago and looks at him pointedly. “Alright?”

A’chago hesitates, but relents after less than half a second. G’raha knows he’d never be able to turn away a person in need. A’chago retrieves a bread roll and spare waterskin from his own saddlebags and hands it to the woman. 

She eyes him, wary, but then her hand snakes out and she seizes the supplies. She drinks quickly and eats even faster, and G’raha wonders how long she’d been in the bush slowly dying. Once she finishes, she pockets the waterskin and begrudgingly thanks them. 

“Be careful,”’ A’chago tells her, his voice now softened and sympathetic. “I hope you find your family.”

The woman glares at them. “I will,” she says, deadly and serious. “Or I will die trying.” Then she faces east and strides off, limping just slightly. 

“Why do I feel like we just sent someone off into the jowls of death?” A’chago murmurs, watching her leave. “If she’d just let us help her, we could’ve brought her to Ironworks, or the Resistance. We have a couple defectors already, she’d fit in fine.” 

“Pride, most likely,” G’raha answers. He watches her go, a tiny pink and brown figure growing smaller on the horizon. He feels nothing but sympathy for her-he’s seen too many soldiers dead and dying on the battlefield desperate to return home. He can only hope that she makes it-and that they welcome her back with open arms.

They don’t stay for long afterwards, saddling up and quickly leaving the town behind. There’s a lot of ground to cover before they reach the G tribe’s homelands, and it’d be better to make as much headway with the amount of daylight they have left. 

G’raha slows Tycoon to a stop at the edge of the forest. It’s just as dense and foreboding as he remembers. The pine trees tower over him, ancient and clustered so tight together that it seems impossible to squeeze through. In the depths of this uncrossable forest is the family he hasn’t seen in three hundred years. 

“You ready?” A’chago asks, pulling Liliana up next to him. He’s searching G’raha’s face for more than a verbal answer. 

G’raha steels himself. Instead of answering, he takes a deep breath and plunges into the woods.


	3. Beneath the Boughs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “Gods,” A’chago breathes, standing next to him. “This is…”
>> 
>> “Welcome to Ilsabard,” G’raha says with a proud grin.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a whole newww worldddddddddddd a dazzling place i never knewwww

The woods are so dark that the sunlight barely filters through. The thin rays that do penetrate the pine trees are feeble and cold, and do nothing to ward off the brisk wind. G’raha tightens his grip on Tycoon’s reins as he’s wracked by a full body shiver. 

The ground is covered in pine needles, from what he can see, but it’s hard to pick anything out. He doesn’t see any of the usual landmarks-he’s not even sure he’d remember them. He knows the G tribe make their home in the center of this forest, but as a child he’d never explored beyond the bounds of their territory. He knows Terncliff is a way to the south of his ancestral lands. He’d never tried to visit; he’d always been terrified of the darkness of the woods, their deepness. 

Despite their...unrepentant creepiness, now that he’s seeing them with fresh eyes he can tell the forest is beautiful. He might be projecting, but he almost feels a deep melancholy as they continue into its depths. Like the ocean, there’s something peaceful about how small he feels surrounded by something so much larger and older than he. With Allag it had always been exciting: he’d felt like the world was at his fingertips, he only had to unravel it. Here, though, it feels like the rift: lonely, beautiful, vast. 

The sound of rushing water draws his attention. Memories of bathing and playing in a massive river come back to him sharply, and he can taste the earthy water in his mouth. If they follow the river, they should be able to track it north to find his tribe. 

“I didn’t want to press earlier, but do you know where we’re going?” A’chago asks, steering Liliana so he can ride alongside G’raha without her nipping Tycoon. 

“I grew up alongside a river,” G’raha answers. “I believe if we follow this one it’ll lead us there.”

A’chago smiles, satisfied. “A fishing tribe, huh? Did you spend a lot of time at the river? What’s your family like?”

“Yes, yes, and...hm. Severe.” He remembers his parents being largely absent for most of his life. “My father, G’alir Nunh, and my mother, G’bhrindhi Vraht, are both accomplished warriors.” It’s a little difficult to recall much more than that: he knows he’d recognize them at once, but picturing their voices or their faces is impossible. “I have nine sisters and one brother, who was born after I left for Sharlayan. Khadu, Shonnoci, Whezza, myself, Vhatmusi, Nocthara, Losnofi, Markai, Nixhiji, Zomkeqi, and then Lufno, my brother.” 

“And I thought my family was large,” A’chago says under his breath. “Hells. Eleven children? All from the same mother?”

G’raha eyes him oddly. Any seeker should know that maternal lines are almost meaningless, what makes somebody siblings is their shared father. He wonders how different it was to grow up in a tribe with mixed heritage. “No, thankfully, otherwise my mother might have keeled over after the first four of us. It goes four, two, three, two.” 

“Where did you all live?”

“In a rhasht tent, all of the children together. Our parents lived in their own rhasht. Isn’t that how you were raised?”

A’chago shakes his head. “According to my eldest sister my family lived in rhashts while they were in Thanalan. But in Meracydia we moved into an abandoned village and lived in houses. All of my siblings lived in one house with my mom and dad, then the other families had their own houses.”

“The mystel live like that,” G’raha notes, remembering how confused he’d been upon visiting a proper mystel village for the first time on the First. “Like hyurs.” 

“Oh. Yeah, I guess,” A’chago agrees. “Hey, weren’t we supposed to be following the river?”

G’raha turns to his right to verify that the water’s still there. Instead of a rushing river, though, at some point it had narrowed into a creek, and then a brook, and now they were at the very source: a very large, very ominous tunnel. While it’s dark in the forest, it looks positively pitch black in the cave. Dark like it’d been at the bottom of the Tempest, unsure if he or A’chago would live long enough to save the First. Dark like battling Hades had been. 

He’s fairly certain he would’ve remembered a landmark like this. It’s wholly unfamiliar, though, and not for the first time he wonders if he’s gotten them lost. 

A’chago, however, looks like he’s raring to go. “Raha, _caving,_ ” he says, eyes glowing with excitement. “If it’s not too rocky inside we can lead the chocobos. Come on, come on, let’s see what’s in the cave!” 

His excitement is contagious. G’raha slides off Tycoon and pulls a torch out from one of the saddlebags. “Are you ready?” he asks, lighting it. Even when he sweeps it in front of them it doesn’t light more than a yalm or two. 

“Yes!” A’chago shimmies off of Liliana and bounces on the balls of his feet. “Gonna fight a cave monster,” he sings. “Gonna steal it’s monster treasure!” He unsheathes his greatsword, still humming under his breath. 

“You’re more likely to scare it off,” G’raha says teasingly, holding Tycoon’s reins in one hand and the torch in the other. He steps into the darkness. Behind him, A’chago gasps in mock offense: it makes G’raha giggle despite himself, his ears and tail betraying his amusement. It’s too easy to rile A’chago up. 

The inside of the cave is barely illuminated by his torch, but excitement thrums in G’raha’s veins all the more because of it. He feels like he and A’chago are the very first ones to ever set foot here. The creek is hardly more than a weak trickle, but the sound of dripping water echoes against the rock.

“Cave monster,” A’chago sings in an operatic voice. “Cave monster!”

Tycoon tosses his head nervously and G’raha uses his tail to smack the back of A’chago’s thighs. “This is why you’d scare it off,” he teases. “Didn’t you train as a bard?”

A’chago either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care, because he takes in a very deep breath and bellows, “Cave _mooooonsteeeerrrrr!_ ”

Nothing happens, until a flurry of screeching bats roar past them and into the forest. Tycoon loses his shit, rearing and bucking frantically, while Liliana tries to catch stragglers out of the air. For a second, neither he nor A’chago say anything, they just stand there staring at each other, dumbfounded. Then they both burst into laughter.

“You really did scare them off,” G’raha wheezes, doubling over. 

A’chago cracks up. “I should make that my new signature attack. Sing them away.”

Tycoon squawks indignantly, ruffling his feathers. He clearly didn’t appreciate being startled half to death, and G’raha tries to apologize by running his hands over the bird’s feathers. 

It’s little moments like these, stolen little moments of laughter and happiness, that remind him why he wanted to return to the Source so badly. Besides it being his only viable option lest he let himself be consumed by crystal, he gets to have as many of these moments with A’chago as he likes. He only wishes it didn’t come at such a price. 

And just like that, he’s thought himself into a bad mood again. His smile fades away and the laughter dies down. _Tis the nature of happiness to be a hairsbreadth from sadness,_ he reminds himself, but the thought brings no comfort. 

This journey is giving him hives. 

A’chago looks like he wants to mention G’raha’s sudden mood swing, but he doesn’t get the chance. As they progress into the cave, it widens into a large room. The ceiling above them is too far above to touch with his hands, and the room itself is probably as wide as the Ocular. Scattered remnants of a Garlean camp litter the area the torch illuminates in this vast space. 

“Garleans,” A’chago breathes, coming up to stand next to G’raha. “Why a cave, of all places?”

“Maybe they were hiding,” G’raha suggests. “You mentioned a lot of infighting and instability. Perhaps two factions were at war?”

A’chago shifts uneasily. “I hope this isn’t that woman’s camp,” he says, and G’raha feels a sickening jolt run down his spine. It looks like whoever had camped here had left in a hurry. There were still tents and bedrolls nearby, albeit ripped to shreds. 

It looks a lot like the camps that had been overrun by Black Rose, G’raha realizes. But if it was truly Black Rose, there would be bodies. There were no bodies here. 

“Feels like voidsent,” A’chago mutters, nudging one of the dirty bedrolls with his boot. A small cloud of dust puffs up out of it. “Remember the World of Darkness?”

The memory of living darkness fills his mind’s eye. Everything in the World of Darkness had been alive, even the silence. It was like the very air was trying to eat you alive. “Yes,” he says, shuddering. The cave does feel a little bit like that-just a little _off_ somehow. “Let’s keep going.”

G’raha swings the torch around in front of him to go back the way they came when he illuminates the largest, nastiest looking Ahriman he’s ever had the displeasure of seeing. The startled scream in his throat gets choked off as the voidsent strikes him across the chest and sends him flying. He loses his grip on the torch and it rolls away, sputtering weakly. 

“Raha!” A’chago yells, unsheathing his sword. G’raha’s quick to recover, though, and he rolls onto his feet and grabs his staff. Without the torch, they’re as good as blind. He inches toward it. 

The voidsent comes howling down next to him, its sharp teeth glistening with blood. The Ahriman shrieks with maniacal laughter as its humongous eye rolls, then rears back for another strike. He has precious few seconds to cast a spell, so he Paralyzes it, praying that the debuff sticks. 

It groans in pain, lightning coursing through its leathery skin as it convulses. G’raha uses his extra time to dive blindly for the torch and curls his fingers around it right as A’chago brings his blade down on the thing’s skull. It splits neatly, disappearing into a puff of black smoke. 

“You ok?!” A’chago asks, offering a hand to help him up. G’raha takes it awkwardly, both hands are full, and winces-he’d been a little sloppy with the casting and some of the electricity had escaped into his hands. It was wreaking havoc on the nerves there. He balances his staff in the crook of his elbow and shakes his hands out loosely. 

“Quite, thank you,” he says, dusting himself off. “I suppose you didn’t scare the cave monster off.”

It takes him a moment to understand the joke, but once he does A’chago flings his arms around him and laughs, kissing G’raha’s cheek messily. 

His jostling almost makes G’raha lose his grip on the torch _again,_ but G’raha leans into his embrace and lets his ears do the talking for him. By the gods, he’s thankful that A’chago is so physically affectionate. He’s starving after having gone decades without. 

One hundred years of absolutely nothing and no one save Lyna, and he’s gone and left her behind. Like he leaves everyone behind. 

He can’t seem to appreciate anything he has without being reminded of everything he gave up in the process. G’raha sets his shoulders and firmly tells his overactive brain to _can it._ The love of his life is holding him closely and they’re _happy,_ they’re enjoying a moment of _happiness,_ and he’s going to enjoy it, damnit!

“The chocobos,” he remembers suddenly, looking around for any sign of them. Both of them seemed to have run off-he _hopes_ that they ran off. They’re smart birds, it’ll take more than a voidsent to take them out, but his heart beats frantically all the same. Tycoon is a nervous wreck on a good day, who knows what his first encounter with a voidsent will mean for his fragile disposition?

A’chago pulls away, too. “Gods. The chocobos. Oh, shit, the chocobos.” He cups his hands around his mouth and faces away. “Liliana!” he calls. “Tycoon!”

G’raha puts his staff away and jams two fingers in his mouth, whistling loudly. Nothing. And to make matters worse, they strayed far from the entrance during their fight. Now they’re isolated in the middle of the room with no idea which direction they came from or where the chocobos may have gone. G’raha can only hope they ran somewhere safe. 

“I didn’t have her on guard, I was worried about her fighting with the saddlebags,” A’chago frets, tugging on his ear nervously. “She would’ve fled at the first sight of danger.”

“I hope Tycoon followed her,” G’raha replies, swinging the torch around as he tries to make sense of where they are. “I just don’t know where they would have gone. I don’t see any tracks.”

“Pick a direction and walk?”

He shrugs. “Seems like our only choice,’ he says, turning until he finds a direction that feels right. “Off we go.”

They walk for what feels like bells, but either the room they’re in is actually much larger than either of them anticipated, or they walked right into another part of the cave without realizing it. G’raha swings the torch around from side to side, but the feeble light doesn’t illuminate much more than six or so paces ahead. His ears flatten, frustration spiking in his gut.

Behind him, A’chago’s greaves scuff on the ground, the metal scraping unpleasantly against the rock. He either doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t care. Instead, he whistles some eerie, mournful tune that echoes off the walls of the cave with its haunting melody. 

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that whistling at night would attract voidsent?” G’raha mutters, narrowly avoiding a large stalagmite that popped out of the darkness. A’chago’s whistle stutters out, and he can hear the gears in his head turning. 

“You’re joking, right?” A’chago croaks, and then G’raha feels his fingers snag on the back of his shirt-A’chago has a tendency to latch onto people when he’s scared. “Raha. You’re joking?”

Instead of reassuring him, G’raha turns around, holding the torch in front of him so that it illuminates his face in a terrifying way. He schools his features into the most serious face he can manage. “My mother always taught me that if you whistle at night, it’ll attract voidsent from the fifth ring of hell: the ones that will possess your corpse and eat your family after it finishes eating _you._ ”

A’chago looks unconvinced, but appropriately nervous. “I’ve never faced a voidsent like that, not even on the Void Ark. You must be lying.” His gaze darts around to peer in the darkness around them, pupils stretching in an attempt to see what potentially hides in the depths. 

“Ask my Auntie G’brundyhaga about the summer of 1549 when we get there,” G’raha replies cryptically, breaking out into a grin when A’chago gulps. He’s not surprised when A’chago hand seeks out his own, and he answers by gripping it tightly. “What? Are you scared of the dark, brave warrior?”

“No,” A’chago replies with a thinly veiled tremor. “I’m the big bad beast of Eorzea. Nothing scares me.”

“Except Y’shtola.”

“Except Y’shtola.” 

They walk in silence for a while more, G’raha’s somewhat underhanded trick to get A’chago to stop whistling a roaring success. It wasn’t like he was _lying,_ you really aren’t supposed to whistle at night, but he hadn’t thought of that old wive’s tale in decades, and probably never would’ve remembered it if A’chago hadn’t been whistling. 

As they walked, G’raha finds himself thankful that at least the cave had gone mostly straight instead of up or down. He racks his brain for any sort of memory on Ilsabard’s cave systems, but the only thing that comes to mind is the Dwarves’ Dig out in Komra. He wonders if they ever figured out what that robotic girl wanted. 

Or if they’re having a good festival. Or if Wright finally managed to set up a trading system with Tomra and was enjoying their first harvest of barley. Glynard will be ecstatic to receive shipments of authentic Wright beer. He wonders if Lyna will finish off a day of training by sharing one with the guard. All of a sudden, the pure ache of missing the First feels like a black hole in his chest, like the Rift, like an endless, empty chasm where something _should_ have fit but doesn’t anymore. He suddenly feels very silly returning to see his birth family-his family is on the First, what is he trying to do here? Replace them?

Where does he even belong now? 

G’raha tightens his grip on A’chago’s hand ever so slightly, just to remind himself that he’s not alone. A’chago squeezes back. 

In front of them, the cave starts to lighten. Tiny, feeble rays of sunlight stream in, and G’raha lets out a sigh of relief. _See?_ he tells himself. _You’ll find your way. You always do._

Outside is like an entirely different world than the woods before they entered the cave. The cave leads them out into a truly majestical valley that sprawls out beneath them like flowing green silks, draped off the craggy mountain peaks and spotted with smatterings of pine trees. There’s waterfalls on either side of them, a few dozen paces away. The waterfalls cascade down into the valley, twin streams of water that drop off the edge of the world and into a deep azure lake. Above them, a hawk screams triumphantly. 

“Gods,” A’chago breathes, standing next to him. “This is…”

“Welcome to Ilsabard,” G’raha says with a proud grin. This, _this_ he remembers. His family traveled through this valley many times on their yearly migrations. The wind rises, blowing his scarf around, and he feels the swell of it in his rising spirits. He knows this land, even after so many decades apart-this is his birthright, this is in his blood, he’s finally come back. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until he returned. The breeze tousles his hair like the soft touch of an old friend. He can’t help himself, he opens his arms wide to the endless sky and gives a great whooping call even though there’s no herds to bring back home. His voice cracks halfway through, unused to the strain, but it feels right. The call echoes out across the valley, ringing in the air. It rides on the waterfall down to the lake and skips across the water, chasing the wind as it ricochets off the mountains and spirals up into the sky. The land answers back in kind, wind roaring in his ears as it buffets them back a few steps, and everywhere around them birds raise their voices and sing. 

Standing here, with the world at his fingertips, he feels kind of silly for being apprehensive about returning. This is his home as much as is it his father’s, and he has every right to claim it. Gods, how long has it been? He left when he was twelve? 

...He might be romanticizing it a tad. Regardless, staring out at the valley below, he feels a power and sense of security he hasn’t felt since he stood amongst the people of the Crystarium. G’raha shifts to look at A’chago, and he realizes that the other man is absolutely enthralled by the view. A’chago’s jaw hangs open as he takes in the roaring waterfalls, the massive mountains, the impossible emerald green of the valley. Pride wells in his chest again. 

“Gil for your thoughts?” he asks, leaning into A’chago’s personal space. He wonders what A’chago could be thinking about-the view is impressive, but rarely is he ever truly rendered speechless. He must be thinking of adventure. G’raha’s going to take him everywhere, show him all the best spots to explore. 

A’chago looks at him with a wide, confused grin. “Did the chocobos fucking _fly_ away?” he asks, brows tightening just a tad. 

G’raha falters. _The chocobos._ He looks back down at the drop below them. The mountainside they’ve appeared on is too steep to walk down, and the waterfalls on either side block off any other viable path. The only way to get down would be to fly, which means they’re effectively stranded on the side of a mountain unless Liliana and Tycoon magically decide to reappear. 

“Excuse me,” a voice behind them calls out. “Are you two lost?”


	4. No One on the Deck Who Can Help You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha's starting to think this isn't about his father at all, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the sad porn chapter is here!!!!

The voice belongs to an extremely old man, who’s peering at them from across the waterfall on their right. He’s not outwardly a threat, but A’chago immediately grasps for G’raha’s hand and tenses reflexively. G’raha finds himself going still. 

The old man tilts his head politely. “What was that? My hearing ain’t too good these days.”

A’chago and G’raha stare at each other, then back to the old man. He’s bent over, wrinkled, and dressed in the traditional garb of the locals in this region-all bright colors with curled-toe boots. He squints toward them, then waves his hand again. “Hello! Are you boys listening to me? Are you lost?”

“We’re just looking for our chocobos, sir!” G’raha calls back, angling himself so he’s ever so slightly obscuring A’chago from view. If A’chago gets recognized, they’ll have bigger problems on their hands than just missing their birds and their gear. 

The old man laughs, and it’s a big, dramatic gesture that reminds G’raha of Rammbroes. “Why didn’t you say so?” he yells, cupping both hands around his mouth. “They flew into my yard a couple bells ago! Come, come!” He turns around and heads into the woods, disappearing into the trees like a spectre. 

There’s no way they’re following a weird old man into the woods. But, G’raha thinks, looking at the cliff, it’s not like they have many options otherwise. He approaches the bank of the river carefully. There is no easy way to cross it, and this close to the cliff’s edge meant the current was deadly. There were a few rocks that jutted out of the water, but they looked too far apart to jump across. He had no idea how deep the water was, or how the old man expected them to cross it like it was nothing. 

“I can try throwing you across,” A’chago offers. He mimes picking G’raha up ‘round the waist and tossing him like a lance. “Might be worth trying.”

G’raha looks at him incredulously and waits for A’chago to shrug it off. When he doesn’t, he scoffs. “Absolutely not. You can’t possibly be serious.”

“Might be worth a shot.”

G’raha rolls his eyes and tests the water with one boot. He can’t see how deep it goes from here, but the shocking cold of it draws his breath out of him. He jerks his foot back and frowns. There must be a way across. 

Upstream the river narrows enough that if he really strains, he might be able to clear it with a single jump, provided he has a running start. Or, maybe...a thought pops into his head. It’s hairbrained, but it might just work. 

“Chago,” he says, “If I told you I had a plan, would you believe me?”

A’chago answers without missing a beat. “Always.”

“Perfect.” G’raha begins walking toward the narrow part of the river, then turns around and backs up til his heels are on the very edge of the bank. “Stand right in front of me, I’m going to use Repelling Shot and then try to rescue you across.” He shifts his weight carefully, testing the give of the wet earth beneath his boots. When it holds, he takes a steadying breath. 

“Wait, you’re not actually-”

G’raha repels himself backward before A’chago can finish. He backflips through the air jerkily, and _ouch,_ he doesn’t remember it being nearly this painful on his legs. The glide is familiar, though, and the hard landing when he plants his feet on the other side. For a second, he and A’chago simply stare at one another, G’raha holding out his hands to steady himself and A’chago watching in disbelief. G’raha laughs in shock. 

Once the adrenaline has worn off, he summons a lasso of aether and swings it in an arc above his head. “You ready?” he shouts across the river. A’chago throws both thumbs up. G’raha smiles, then throws the lasso so it catches around A’chago’s waist and yanks him close in an instant. The breath is knocked out of him a little when A’chago flies into his arms, but more than that, he’s exhilarated that his plan _worked._

“Hello, love,” he tells the man in his arms. A’chago giggles and pushes him away, dusting himself off. 

On this side of the river, there’s a path that’d been invisible from the opposite side. It’s roughly in the same direction that the old man had disappeared in, so it’s only a matter of following it until the end. 

The old man’s home is delightfully cozy, hovel in the woods aside. It sits nestled amongst the towering pines, cobblestone and wood and smoke rising from the chimney. Out in the yard, true to his word, are Liliana and Tycoon. Both of them are ecstatic to be reunited with their riders. A’chago frantically checks them both over, but they seem to be in fine health, if a bit wobbly. G’raha spies the culprit: a large, unsupervised bush of chocobonip that seems to have suddenly lost half its foliage. Tycoon warbles and pushes his beak into G’raha’s hand. His breath absolutely reeks of it. 

Inside the old man’s home is just as inviting: There’s a fire crackling in the hearth with a pot simmering away above it. The fireplace itself is rusty red brick, and it crowds the rest of the room with its sheer size. There’s a set of pictures balanced precariously on the mantle, fighting for space with an assortment of knickknacks. G’raha spies a few pinecones delicately interspersed between the objects. The worn wooden floors are dry and rough beneath his boots, and adorned with handmade knit rugs in bright splashes of color. The kitchen table elbowed the stove for space in the corner closest to the fireplace, and when A’chago followed him into the house he knocked the door into one of the chairs. On the opposite side of the room was the man’s bed, surrounded on all sides by bookshelves built into the walls and illuminated by scented lanterns. The entire cottage exuded a warm vanilla aroma. The old man pulls out chairs for the three of them, cursing softly under his breath when one of the chairs catches on an uneven floorboard. 

“You’ll have to pardon the mess, I don’t get visitors often,” the old man apologizes, wringing his hands. “Do you good folk want anything to eat? I just finished making stew.”

A’chago tenses, but G’raha intercepts him. “We’d love some, thank you,” he tells the old man. He ignores the dirty look A’chago shoots him. What danger could a lonely old man possibly present? If G’raha’s split second assessment holds any weight, then this gentleman is harmless, if a bit lonely. He eyes the assortment of dirty dishes near the man’s bed. Yes, perhaps just a tad lonely. 

The old man’s face lights up, and he hobbles over to the cupboards and starts pulling out bowls. “The name’s Henricus Furnius, but please, call me Henri. Don’t get enough folks ‘round these parts to insist on anything else.”

A distinctly Garlean name, but lacking any denotation of rank. Henri’s got pale, wrinkled skin, thinning grey hair, and a steep slope to his shoulders that brings his natural Garlean height down to something closer to a Midlander. His third eye is dull and grey. G’raha sweeps his gaze around the cottage once more, looking for any hint of who this man might once have been. The only thing he can surmise is that he might have been an academic, judging from the sheer number of books, but then again, if he’s living alone he might just enjoy the company. 

Henri doles out heaping portions of stew into the bowls. It looks thick and hearty, all meat and potatoes and barley slathered in a rich brown broth. G’raha is suddenly reminded of how little he’s had to eat-besides the rations this morning in Ala Mhigo, he hasn’t eaten at all. His stomach growls loudly and he flushes in embarrassment. 

Henri merely chuckles, adding an extra spoonful to one of the bowls. He sets them down in front of them with a wide, toothy grin. “Dinner’s served, lads,” he says. “Furnius special, just how Mawmaw makes it.”

G’raha already knows A’chago won’t touch the stew until the old man has, so he swallows down a spoonful to hurry up the process. The flavors are bold on his tongue-he can taste steak, carrots, onions, and something else-he frowns, chewing as he struggles to place it. It’s almost familiar. 

“The secret is in the spices,” Henri says proudly. “Don’t go telling everybody, but it’s all about the mustard. Trust me. Add just a little pinch to the broth right at the end, and it’ll change your damn life.”

 _Mustard,_ G’raha thinks. Gods, that’s a flavor profile he hasn’t tasted in a long time. He vaguely remembers searching a vast field for yellow flowers with his siblings. “An Ilsabardian classic,” he remarks. 

Henri’s face lights up. “We’ve a local in our midst! Tell me, boy, are you from that tribe of red-haired cats that comes down to the valley? Good folks, they are, real good ones. Beautiful women.” At this, he grins, like he’s sharing a secret with G’raha. 

G’raha schools his features into something polite, choosing to gloss over the fact that the distinctly _Garlean_ man had just referred to his tribe as _cats,_ telling himself that Henri’s behavior must be excused as a product of the man’s time. “I am a member of the G tribe, yes,” he says softly. “Returning from university.” A lie, but not quite. 

A’chago kicks him underneath the table, and G’raha kicks back. If this man knows the G tribe, then he may know how to reach them-and even though G’raha recognizes this valley, he doesn’t know the exact location of his tribe. He’d rather avoid flying in circles if he can. 

“You’re a good boy, son,” Henri tells him. “Coming back to see your folks. Real good.” His tone tapers off then, drops a bit. 

“Do you have family?” G’raha asks, hoping to lighten the mood a bit. Henri smiles again, and shakily gets to his feet to plod over to the fireplace. 

He reaches one trembling hand up to the picture frame right in the very center, a portrait of a young man grinning broadly into the camera with his arms around a gorgeous young woman and a round-faced little girl. “Right here,” Henri says, plucking the picture from its place and holding it in front of him. He strokes the frame reverently. “My girls.”

Walking back over to the table, he holds the frame out so G’raha and A’chago can see. The younger Henri is kneeling on some kind of quilt, it looks like a picnic if the basket in the corner of the shot is anything to go by. He’s got one arm wrapped around a young woman with thick dark hair, and the other around a little girl with two pigtails sticking straight out of her head and a toothy grin. 

“Floria and Pollia,” Henri says, pointing to his wife and then his daughter. “Best damn things to ever happen to me.” 

A’chago looks up at Henri. “Do they ever come visit?”

Henri’s face falls. “No,” he says quietly. “Floria died about ten years back, and Pollia...well, you know how kids are. They grow up, and get busy, and before you know it they don’t need Pops to hold their hand anymore.”

Tears spring to G’raha’s eyes with a quickness that surprises him. He’s so unused to this shade of grief: the part that gets triggered completely randomly, when he’s least expecting it. He knows well what Henri is describing.

Lyna has, and always will be, an incredibly strong woman in her own right. But one day he’d picked her up and set her down for the very last time, and ever since then it’s felt like she just kept growing and getting further and further away. He’s endlessly thankful that she’s made a life for herself, but now-not being able to _see_ her, to watch her keep growing and achieving-the ache of missing his granddaughter makes his chest tight. _That’s my child,_ some frantic, paternal part of him cries. _She’s out there, and I’m stuck here._

A’chago sets a hand on his arm, heavy and comforting. “We know what you mean,” he tells Henri. He rubs his hand back and forth on G’raha’s arm. 

Henri shrugs. “Such is life,” he says lightly. “Your folks’ll be real glad to see you, boy, trust me,” he directs toward G’raha. 

G’raha wipes his eyes discreetly and nods. “I hope so.”

“You know,” Henri says, settling back into his chair, “Raising kids is a funny thing. You get all these ideas of how you’d do things different from your own folks, but when it comes down to it, you end up making the same mistakes and you got nobody to blame for it but yourself.” He pauses, long and mournful. “I was too hard on Pollia,” he finally admits. “This was back when they’d just started the draft, and she was going to be the right age for it. I knew she was going to be a soldier, so I wanted her to be tough. Tough enough to survive war and come back home in one piece. She was a real soft girl, too, gentle like her mother: liked flowers and numbers and her studies, had big dreams of being a teacher when she grew up. The war put an end to all that, though.”

Henri gets a faraway look in his eyes, then, and shrugs his shoulders. “Reckon I must’ve been a bit too tough. She hasn’t spoken to me in twenty years.”

G’raha swallows roughly. The stew in his stomach feels like lead. 

“There ain’t nothing more I’d like than to ‘pologize for how I treated that poor girl,” Henri says, his voice cracking. “I’m-I’m real sorry, folks, I don’t mean to get all public with y’all, I just-I didn’t do right by my baby girl, and now I’m paying for it. Karma’s a bitch, eh?” Henri’s shoulders shake, but he cracks a grin despite his watery eyes. 

“Fate is a fickle thing,” G’raha replies. “It takes us where we least expect it.” He stirs his stew idly, reflecting on Henri’s words. One part of him desperately hopes that his father is similar to Henri: that he’d tried, albeit poorly, and that his actions were misguided attempts at love. The other part of him sympathizes with Pollia. He imagines that if he were in her shoes he’d react much the same. 

Henri turns his attention to A’chago. “What about you, son? You two brothers?”

A’chago coughs around his mouthful of stew. “Uh, no, sir,” he responds, wiping his mouth. “We’re not brothers.” 

“Then you’re a damn good friend for coming all the way from Eorzea for your buddy, here,” Henri says with a nod. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, y’all’s accents gave you clear away soon as you opened your mouths.” He jerks his head toward G’raha. “You oughta get yourself a wife as loyal as your friend,” he says with a pointed look.

 _He’s an old man, he’s set in his ways,_ G’raha reminds himself. “I’ll be sure to do that,” he says with a strained smile. 

They finish dinner quickly, and Henri tells them all about the G tribe’s rotation as the three of them wash up. G’raha’s put on drying duty, A’chago and Henri are washing the dishes. G’raha rubs the towel over the dishes methodically, but he’s more focused on what information Henri has to offer. 

“They always come down here at the beginning of autumn,” Henri says, scrubbing at a particularly vicious stain. “Right before the leaves start to change. Y’all came at a good time.” 

G’raha hums in agreement, setting the bowl he was drying down and picking up a wet spoon. Henri keeps talking, tells them of how some of the tribe members will come out and visit him, makes a flirty comment encouraging A’chago to hook up with one of G’raha’s aunties. G’raha gets a kick out of watching A’chago’s tail go ramrod straight before relaxing into a tranquil bob. 

As he turns back to the stack of wet dishes, an odd sort of silence falls over the three of them. There’s no noise beside the running faucet and the clink of porcelain. It, unfortunately, gives G’raha ample time to reflect. 

The fact that Henri knows so much about his tribe is both comforting and discomforting in equal measure. To hear him talk about them is like listening to stories about strangers; G’raha has little to no recollection of the names he mentions or the tales he tells-it all feels utterly foreign. Will he recall the faces of his tribe when he finally arrives? Or will he return only to find that everything has changed and he is a stranger to what should have been his? Three centuries is an awfully long time to be away from home. 

Once they finish, Henri leads them to the door. “Y’all sure you don’t wanna stay?” he asks apprehensively. “There’s a storm coming through.”

“We’re fine, thank you,” G’raha says, taking the door from Henri. “We really shouldn’t waste daylight. Thank you so much for the refreshments, though, and for keeping our birds safe.” As he holds it open, A’chago slips out quietly and gives him an odd look. 

Henri holds up his hands and looks away. “Oh, please,” he says, “‘Twas the least I could do. They always say the sky is a traveler’s only companion, but it don’t do much for soothing the soul like a warm meal can.”

Suddenly exhausted, G’raha nods silently. A’chago answers for him. “Thanks, sir. Take care.”

They fly in silence for malms, long enough that the setting sun disappears underneath the horizon and A’chago urges them to stop. They make camp on an open stretch of valley underneath the stars.  
G’raha folds his hands under his head and lays on his back, staring up at the millions of twinkling lights that fill the sky. He can see the purple and blue galaxies from here. They look like someone spilled wine on the sky itself. 

He feels so pitifully small. It’s hard to believe that he once crossed space and time, once held dominion over it like a king. Hard to recognize it, so familiar with the First’s endless light as he is. Hard to believe that Allag once looked upon these very stars. He sucks in a breath and holds it in his lungs until it burns. The sky is vast, and empty, and lonely, and staring at it makes something in his chest twinge. Henri’s words echo in his ears. 

Loneliness is so painfully familiar. It’s his oldest and most reliable companion. Sometimes he just feels so disconnected from people; he feels like they’re not really there and they don’t really see him. This is most definitely a product of one hundred years in isolation, he reasons, but even as a child this sentiment plagued him. Above him, the stars glitter like diamonds. It’s pretty, but it don’t do much to soothe the soul, he decides. 

A’chago sets out his bedroll next to G’raha’s and lays down beside him. For a moment, there’s no talk, just the sounds of their breathing. Then, A’chago speaks. “What’s on your mind, Raha?”

_Henri’s words have given me much to reflect on. I’m exhausted. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t even know if I came here for my father, or for something else. Why do I always feel like I’m chasing something I can’t reach?_ A thousand truths run through his mind at once, but he settles for the shallowest one. “Mustard. And how it really does make all the difference in a stew.”

“No publicity answers,” A’chago warns. 

G’raha rolls onto his side so that he’s facing A’chago. The light of the campfire reflects in his eyes, making them glow a burning, endless orange. Once upon a time he’d convinced himself that A’chago was the balm that would soothe all his hurts. Imagine his disappointment upon having him and still feeling that impossible yearning. 

A’chago offers him a small smile anyway, and it makes his chest feel just a little less tight. “No secrets, Raha.”

Something about his tone-the roughness of his voice, maybe, or perhaps simply the fact that his defenses lower at night-ebbs away at the pain in his chest just slightly. He takes a shuddery breath. “I always leave,” he finally answers. “I left home. I left Krile, I left you, I left the First, I’m always leaving. I’m always alone.”

“You’re not alone, Raha,” A’chago starts, reaching out to touch him. G’raha flinches away and A’chago quickly retracts his hand. “You’re _not,_ ” he insists. 

Tears burn behind G’raha’s eyes. “There’s this gaping, terrible hole in me,” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward his chest. “It aches, so badly, and I so desperately want to fill it.”

A’chago doesn’t answer, giving him space to continue, so he rolls on his back and looks back at the sky. It stares back. 

“I search and I search and I _search_ for something I don’t even know how to name, but nothing works,” he says helplessly. “I thought it was Allag. I thought it was you. I thought it was saving the First. But nothing, _nothing_ has made that hole close even a little.” If A’chago is unnerved by his truths, he gives no outward reaction. “And I’m so _lonely,_ ” his voice cracks here, but the words continue to spill out anyways, “I’m so godsdamningly, crushingly lonely, even when I’m in a room full of people.”

He really should’ve expected it when A’chago tackles him in a fierce hug, but A’chago still catches him by surprise. “Gods, Raha,” he whimpers into G’raha’s hair. “I had no idea. But I promise, no, I _swear_ that so long as I have any say in it, you’ll never be alone.”

G’raha brings his arms up to wrap around A’chago’s shoulders. “What if I have to leave again? What if you do?” It’s not as easy as just promising to be there. The not knowing is the worst part-he doesn’t think he could stand having A’chago now, only to lose him again. 

“Then I’ll come find you, same as I always have,” A’chago promises, but it’s muffled in G’raha’s hair. 

It’s cruel to promise something like that, when neither of them know for sure if they’ll be able to stay together. Their lives do not belong to them. And G’raha, some way or another, will end up alone. A’chago might die. G’raha’s destiny might separate them again. Something will throw a wrench in the works, and G’raha will find himself collecting another family, with this one being nothing more than a footnote and another bittersweet memory. 

“You can’t promise that,” he tells A’chago’s shoulder, but he clings to A’chago even tighter. “We can’t promise that.”

A’chago swallows his words with a heated kiss, moving his hands to cup G’raha’s jaw and pull him closer. “Let me prove it to you,” he breathes when they break apart. His hands run down G’raha’s throat to his shirt, frantically unwinding his scarf and throwing it to the side. He presses his mouth along G’raha’s neck as he works. “I’ll always be with you,” he says. 

G’raha clutches his shoulders, digging his fingers in until A’chago comes back up and he kisses him again. He’s crying, it’s probably disgusting, but he just-he just needs proof, needs A’chago’s stupid promise imprinted on his body, needs something tangible to remind himself that this is real. They break apart long enough for A’chago to get his shirt off, then his own, and then he attacks A’chago’s neck viciously. He wants to leave marks. He wants to prove that he existed here. 

A’chago writhes in his lap, breaths hitching. He rests his hands on G’raha’s chest and kneads the muscle there. It’s not hard enough. G’raha shoves him onto his back and works his pants off, A’chago enthusiastically lifting his hips to help. He shucks his own off next, then dives into his saddlebag for the oil. Once he retrieves it, he douses his fingers and reaches behind himself. 

He probably could’ve gone slower, the first two fingers make him hiss in pain, but the look on A’chago’s face is enough to distract him. “Wanna feel you,” G’raha grunts. “Know you’re mine.”

“Okay,” A’chago says, watching mesmerized as G’raha plunges his fingers deeper into himself. 

Once G’raha’s certain he’s ready he climbs on top of A’chago and lines himself up, then sinks down all in one go. It feels like the air’s been punched out of him. He gasps and goes rigid, just letting himself become accustomed to being filled. 

A’chago groans beneath him, his hands flying up to cling at G’raha’s hips. For a moment, he’s the only focal point in the entire world: his voice, his scent, the weight of him inside G’raha’s body, the heat of his skin against the inferno of G’raha’s own. G’raha shifts his hips just slightly, pulling himself up and sitting back down again. It burns, but he wants the burn. He wants to feel this tomorrow, and the next day, and for the rest of his life-

He pulls all the way off A’chago’s cock so only the head is in, then drops back down again. It aches in the best way. He sets up a fast pace, bouncing in A’chago’s lap to the panicky beat of his own heart. “Tell me you’re mine,” he begs A’chago. “Tell me I get to keep you.”

“Always,” A’chago answers. “I’m yours. Always.” With that, he surges up, holding G’raha firmly in his lap as he kisses him senseless, then pushes him backward so A’chago’s on top. G’raha hooks his ankles around A’chago’s waist and clings to him, like maybe if he can hold on tight enough he’ll finally be able to keep something more substantial than a memory, and A’chago fucks into him slow and steady, like he’s using his body as the anchor to guide G’raha home. At some point, G’raha starts crying harder, and A’chago kisses the tears away from his face gently, boxing him in on all sides and surrounding him with his weight, his scent. G’raha keens, high and long in his throat, and A’chago steals his breath away with another kiss. 

“Please, please, please,” G’raha begs-though what for, he’s not sure. He wants _all_ of A’chago, wants somebody to want him and _mean_ it, wants to lay his head down somewhere soft and safe and _his,_ wants to be home, even though he’s not really sure where home is anymore. Gods, he wants to go home. 

“I’ve got you,” A’chago murmurs into his ear, thrusting slowly. “It’s okay, Raha.”

G’raha arches off the ground and comes, thighs shaking where they’re clenched around A’chago’s waist. His mouth opens in a wordless shout and though his eyes blur over with more tears, he still meets A’chago’s own. They’re relentlessly optimistic. Hopeful.

G’raha’s not sure when he stopped counting on hope. He’d held onto it so firmly his entire life, so convinced that _this_ would be the answer, this would soothe that terrible need in his chest, and nothing did. Not even waking up on the Source. A’chago thrusts erratically and stills, and G’raha realizes despairingly, _not even this._

A’chago pulls out slowly, panting. G’raha’s silent as he cleans him up, silent as he throws the rag away and settles in his own bedroll. 

“That didn’t help, did it?” A’chago asks into the night. His voice isn’t upset, just impassive. Like he already knew the answer. 

G’raha doesn’t reply, but he does roll back over and reach out for A’chago, and he pulls him into his arms, and the hole inside of his chest narrows just a tad. They fall asleep like that, tucked together underneath the stars. The last thing G’raha thinks before he drifts off is _I wish this was enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	5. The Third Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >   
> G’raha grabs both mugs and uses his elbow to dislodge A’chago’s grip. “Get up,” he says. “Leech. Limpet. Slug.”  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: _very_ graphic depiction of g'raha's dad asphyxiating for the entire last paragraph.

By the time G’raha wakes up, he feels marginally better. Enough so that he can slink out from A’chago’s grip, fold and pack his bedroll, and have a pot of water boiling away over a small campfire before the other man even stirs. G’raha watches the water boil idly as A’chago blearily lurches up.

“Raha,” A’chago calls in a mumbly voice, eyes still closed and fists tangled in the sheets of his bedroll. 

“To your left,” G’raha answers. He stirs in the coffee grounds, watching them disappear into the vortex of water in a flurry of delicious-smelling fervor. A’chago makes some sort of noise that could indicate annoyance or pleasure, then latches his arms around his waist, burying his face in the small of G’raha’s back. 

“Smells good,” he says, muffled. His grip loosens, just a tad, and G’raha rolls his eyes when he realizes that A’chago’s fallen asleep again. He turns his attention back to the boiling pot, removing it from the fire and pouring it through strainers into two mugs. The smell is heavenly, though he figures that’s more due to the fact that he hasn’t had good coffee in days, rather than any real quality. He’s accustomed to garbage now, how dreadful. Moren would weep. 

G’raha grabs both mugs and uses his elbow to dislodge A’chago’s grip. “Get up,” he says. “Leech. Limpet. Slug.”

“ _Mrrrrgh,_ ” A’chago says, clinging to him tighter. G’raha resigns himself to his fate with a sip of thin, bitter coffee. He spits it out almost instantly, gods, how did he ever think himself accustomed to this? But, lacking the luxury of options, he takes another horrible mouthful and swallows it down as quickly as he can. 

“I suppose I’ll have to walk Liliana and Tycoon north myself,” G’raha muses. “And leave you behind. I wonder if the Scions will rescind my membership for leaving you alone in the Ilsabardian wilderness.”

He waits for an answer, but A’chago’s breaths are even and deep behind him. G’raha sets the other mug down and places his hand over the clasped ones on his waist. 

It’s nice to enjoy the morning. The air is wet and chilly, the grass covered with a thin dew that’s just a few degrees too warm to settle into a proper frost. The sky that’s visible between the mountain peaks is a pale purple, slowly yellowing as the sun rises. In the distance he can see the beginnings of the storm Henri mentioned. The valley doesn’t feel familiar the way he expected it to, but it settles something in his soul nonetheless. 

Once his poor excuse of a coffee has been finished, and A’chago’s has long since gone cold, G’raha wrenches his way out of A’chago’s grip once more and sets about readying the chocobos for the next leg of their journey. Finally, A’chago rises, and G’raha watches him out of the corner of his eye as he gropes for the abandoned mug. He wraps his fingers around the lip at last, downs the whole thing in one guzzling slurp, then his eyes fly open and he visibly gags. Satisfaction runs through G’raha’s chest. At least he’s not to be alone in his disgust. 

“Not to your liking?” he asks innocently, tightening Tycoon’s reins. He shoots a gaze over his shoulder at A’chago.

The other man is smiling, but the look he gives him is panicked. “What’s the right answer?” A’chago asks nervously. 

G’raha laughs, giving the reins one last tug before slapping Tycoon on the haunches fondly. “It’s the worst brew I’ve ever made, feel free to express your disgust without consequence,” he tells the bird.

“Oh, thank the Twelve,” A’chago breathes. “I thought I was going to have to tell you your coffee sucks after we had such a heartfelt conversation last night.”

G’raha stills. He’d been hoping to avoid any mention of last night. Tycoon chirps, ruffling his feathers as he adjusts under the weight of the packs again. 

He can feel A’chago’s eyes boring into the back of his head. “We’re going to talk about it, right?” A’chago’s saying. “Raha. You basically told me you constantly feel empty inside.” There’s an odd pitch to his voice that G’raha ignores. 

“I was exaggerating,” G’raha replies flippantly. He swings his legs up over Tycoon until he’s settled comfortably in the saddle. On the ground below, A’chago’s packed up his own bedroll and is shoving the dishes in his own saddlebag. 

A’chago kicks dirt over the campfire, stomping it out with a little more force than necessary. “So that’s it, then? Everything’s fine?”

G’raha bites the inside of his cheek. _Publicity answers,_ the A’chago in his head accuses. He ignores it. A wiser man wouldn’t deflect, would stop and communicate, but he knows if he does that he’ll put himself into another mood. “We’re going to see my family today,” he says instead, “and everything is fine.” He turns his gaze toward the mountains, toward north, because if he looks at A’chago they’ll probably start fighting. 

Instead of pushing the issue, A’chago deflates. “Right,” he says. He clambers onto Liliana’s back. “Okay. Lead the way.”

The storm that Henri warned them about is brewing on the horizon, and G’raha tries to gauge when it’ll reach them. It looks a few hours off, but the breeze is stiff. The cold is an invigorating bite against his skin, almost playful. He pulls his scarf tighter around his neck and winces when it brushes one of the bruises A’chago left there. 

Everything is sore. Everything _hurts,_ which is what he wanted, but he regrets it now as he shifts in his saddle. They have to reach the base of the mountains before the storm hits, where hopefully his family will be camped alongside the Walpurg river. G’raha urges Tycoon on with a nudge of his heel and the bird takes to the sky. 

He wonders how far along his tribe has gotten with the funeral rites. He’s probably missed all but the fifth circle, assuming he gets there before his father passes away. Anxiety gnaws at his ribs. There’s really no way to know if he’ll make it in time. No use ruminating, though, especially when it’ll only make him feel worse. 

There’s five circles of rites that must be completed before death to ensure that the person in question can ascend to the next ring of life. G’raha’s memories of the rites are fuzzy, but he remembers how important they were, and how his father had presided over the rites for many a fallen warrior or aging tribesmember. During each circle, a ritual and a single line of the final prayer is spoken by the medicine woman. First circle is...clarity of mind, G’raha remembers, and something about lavender. The second circle is strength of progeny, where the family was expected to pour their blood into a bowl. He can’t remember the third or fourth at all, but the fifth is the entire prayer repeated all at once, while the medicine woman gives the dying member a potent drug to ease the pain of death. 

The fifth circle is only performed as the tribesmember is dying. Sometimes, if the member is a warrior who fell in battle, the fifth circle is the only one that gets completed at all, and the rest have to be done retroactively after their death. 

“What’s going to happen? When we get there?” A’chago asks, pulling Liliana up so that she’s flying next to Tycoon. 

“If he’s still alive, my family and I will perform the remaining rituals and then wait until he passes. If…” G’raha trails off. The words stick in his throat. “If my father has already passed by the time we get there, I’ll pay my respects, and then we’ll leave.”

A’chago nods. He hunches his shoulders against the breeze that’s steadily gotten stronger as they’ve traveled. He looks funny, half-awake and buried in the coats they pulled out of their saddlebags before they left. 

G’raha turns his attention back to the ground below them. He has to keep an eye out for the river. 

The river. His mind drifts as they fly over the valley. More than anything, he wants to talk to his father. He wants to know _why_ he was sent away. He’s rationalized it over the years, but he wants the truth. And he wants to stop caring about what his father thinks. He wants his dad to know that he _didn’t_ need them, never has. He’s never needed anybody. He’s made it this far on his own, he can do it for the rest of his life if he needs to. 

He’s young, twelve-ish. Old enough to know that the rest of the kids don’t like him but young enough to not know why. He’s smart, though, his little sister Nocthara tells him all the time, even though she’s only seven and doesn’t have a good frame of reference, and he has a plan this time. He’s going to approach the other children and tell them that if they let him play, they’d find out that he’s really good at kickball, and he could probably help them win, especially because the reason they keep losing is because Whezza kicks left and she should compensate by changing her angle. He steels himself and firmly marches to the river where the rest of the kids are playing on the bank. 

“Look out, halfie’s on a mission,” one of the boys says, pointing at him. The others turn and stare, some of them already snickering, and G’raha almost loses his nerve. Almost. 

“Hello!” he says loudly, coming to a stop right in front of them. “I know why the Gryphons always lose against the Lions in kickball.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs his chest out. “And I can show you, too! If you let me play.”

For a long time, nobody says anything. G’raha starts to falter, but he has to stick this out. All the heroes in his storybooks are brave and confident, so he’s going to be brave and confident too.

The boy who first pointed him out, an older kid with short blond hair and sharp blue eyes, scoffs. He turns back to the other kids and keeps talking to them, like G’raha didn’t say anything at all, like G’raha’s not even there. 

It’s a lost cause. He wants to turn tail and run right then and there, but he’s not a coward, and if they just listen to him, they’ll realize he’s right, he just needs to- “Um!” he says, but his voice cracks halfway through and he flushes bright red. “Excuse me!”

“Aw, he’s the same color as his eye,” one of the older girls coos. “Look.”

The blond boy looks at him with such visceral disgust that G’raha’s ears flatten against his head and he nearly loses his nerve once more. The boy sneers. “Gross. Like he needs to be any more of a freak. Hey, halfie, do us all a favor and leave us alone. Nobody wants to look at you or your freakish eye.”

Reflexively, G’raha cups one hand over his red eye. “I-I’m telling the truth,” he tries again. “I know how to win. Whezza,” he turns to his sister, then, “you always kick left. If you changed the angle of your foot you’d-”

Whezza stands up like something bit her tail and stomps over to him. “Stop embarrassing me in front of my friends,” she hisses, grabbing his free arm and dragging him in the direction of the children’s rhasht. “Just go home or something, Raha. Goddess, you’re so annoying!”

She only lets go once they’re a few paces away from the other kids, and G’raha can’t stop the huge, embarrassing tears from burning in his nose. Whezza takes one look at him and groans. “Raha. Stop crying. I’m sorry I called you annoying, okay? Just go read a book or something, you wouldn’t even like kickball, honest.”

She’s tired of him. G’raha scrubs his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and tries to feel angry instead of ashamed. 

“What’s this?” A big, booming voice says over his shoulder. His dad is here. He’ll make everything better. 

G’raha latches himself onto his dad’s waist, nevermind that he’s twelve and too old to be doing that anymore. “Whezza’s being mean,” he accuses, staring daggers at his big sister. 

Whezza glares back. “Am not. Dad, Raha keeps bugging me and my friends! Can’t you make him stop?”

G’alir rubs a hand over his face, then peels G’raha off of him. “Raha,” he says very seriously, “You know better than to annoy your sister and her friends.” His voice is even, measured, and disappointed. G’raha suddenly wishes he’d never come up with the stupid plan in the first place. “And you,” his dad says, turning to Whezza, “don’t need to be rude to your little brother. He can’t help the fact that he looks different. Go back and play with your friends.”

Whezza leaves, huffing and puffing, and his dad kneels down so he can look G’raha in the eye. G’raha hurriedly messes up his hair so it’s hiding his red eye from view. “I’m not annoying,” he tells his dad insistently. “I’m not. Dad, I promise. I wasn’t being annoying.” 

G’alir just makes a pained face and pats the top of his head. “Do you know my friend? The scholar? Well, he came to visit, and I told him about how smart you are. He was very impressed. He wants you to come to his school and study there.”

G’raha ducks away from his dad’s hand. “I don’t want to go to school,” he says. “I want to play kickball.”

“You’ll like it. You’ll fit in there.”

“I want to fit in here!” G’raha stomps his foot. 

“You’re not _going_ to fit in here!” his dad roars, then quiets. G’raha shrinks away from him. His dad’s shoulders slump, and he cradles his head in his hands. “I’m sorry. Raha, I’m sorry I yelled. Just, I already told him you’d go, and everything’s already set up. You’re leaving in a week. It’ll be good for you. Won’t you think about it?”

G’raha stares at his father, bewildered. His dad isn’t even _looking_ at him. _Nobody’s_ looking at him. No one sees him. For the first time, G’raha becomes aware that he’s completely, entirely alone. His dad would sooner send him away than acknowledge him. 

Uncomfortable, prickling rage fills him from the bottoms of his feet to the very tips of his ears. If no one wants him, then _fine._ Fine! He’ll leave! “Fine,” he spits, putting as much vitriol into his voice as he can manage. “I’ll leave. Since you want to get rid of me so bad.”

“Raha, that’s not true,” his dad begins, but G’raha turns on his heel and stomps away. He makes it all the way back to the children’s rhasht before he starts to cry. 

G’raha and A’chago continue to travel without incident, crossing the valley in record time and uncomfortable silence. G’raha still hasn’t spoken to him, has barely looked at him, but he tells himself that it’s practical. He’ll need all his strength to face his family, and he’s already so drained. 

Finding the river is simple: fly until they find it, then follow it from the air until they see the telltale red tents that dot the landscape alongside the riverbank. 

They look so small from the sky, but G’raha loses his breath at the sight of them. Everything comes flooding back. 

_That’s the children’s rhasht. The one where he slept curled up against dozens of other red or blonde-haired blue-eyed kits. That’s the riverbank where Whezza threw his favorite book and he had to walk for malms before he spied it stuck in the reeds downstream. That’s the mountain in the distance where Shonnoci tried to sneak away with her boyfriend, before she got caught by their father and had to do extra chores for a month straight._

G’raha shakes himself out of memory. He watches as a tiny red blur darts between the children’s rhasht and the warrior’s. He wonders, briefly, if they’ve been noticed, when his unasked question is answered by the whizzing of an arrow grazing his ear. 

A’chago curses loudly behind him and dives Liliana toward the ground. G’raha follows suit, dodging the swarm of arrows that are unleashed into the sky. Tycoon squawks loudly, jerking, and G’raha tries to control his bird and keep them both alive. 

On the ground it’s not much safer. The only trees in the valley are closer to the G tribe’s settlement than they are, so G’raha unhooks his staff and casts a shield over them. The arrows sound like rain on a tin roof as they hit the shield with surprising force. 

“Raha, did you not tell them you were coming?!” A’chago shouts, unsheathing his sword and sliding off Liliana’s back. G’raha grunts instead of answering, too focused on regulating the aether needed to hold the shield. 

A’chago makes an angry noise behind him, then there’s a flash of dark magic behind him. “Put your sword away!” G’raha says fiercely. “They’ll attack if you’re hostile.”

“They’re _already_ hostile!”

Irritation churns in G’raha’s stomach. This isn’t going how he expected returning to go. If he can just show them who he is, then they’ll be fine, but he can’t even get close enough to pick out their faces. G’raha grits his teeth and resolutely walks forward. 

The bombardment doesn’t stop as he approaches. It only gets stronger. The shield he’s holding starts to crack, so he bolsters it with another surge of aether, enough to leave him sweating and feeling breathless. _Nothing like a workout to wake yourself up,_ he thinks bitterly. 

Eventually, he gets close enough that he can see the faces of those shooting at them. He recognizes a few of them dully, aunties he’s never really spoken to and tias he’d been too busy avoiding as a child to speak to. His whole world stops when he sees his mother amongst them. 

He almost drops the shield, he’s so shocked. But there she is, glaring him down fiercely, aiming a bow and arrow at her eldest son’s head. Her hair is streaked through with grey like his had been when he was still the Exarch, and her face is lined with wrinkles and a few new scars, including one that crosses her left eye. He sees the moment where she recognizes him, too, when that glare leaves her eyes and her bow lowers. She holds up her hand and the other archers respond like a well-trained militia, lowering their weapons and eyeing them wearily. G’raha puts down the shield before he can think better of it. 

G’brhindhi Vraht marches forward like a soldier, her footsteps steady and sounding like gunshots in G’raha’s head. When she stops in front of him, she only comes up to his chin. “ _Ssyn på shir,_ ”’ she says, and, gods, even her voice stirs some long-dead memory in his chest. He has the distinct impression of being a kit wrapped in her arms, listening to her gravely voice rumble through her chest in her odd sort of purring lilt. “Raha.”

“ _Mor på yhir,_ ” he answers reflexively, even though it’s been centuries since he’s even thought in his own language, and he physically feels his walls begin to crumble. He pulls himself together in the nick of time, though, taking a deep breath and setting his shoulders. “I’m home.”

They stare at each other, silently, searching. G’raha almost lets it go on for longer, but then he remembers that he’s not alone and jolts himself out of reverie. “Mother, this is A’chago,” he says hurriedly, stepping aside to introduce him. 

A’chago bows politely. G’brhindhi circles him slowly, staring down her nose at him. “ _Mshtulk sil’berk,_ ” she says, making eye contact with G’raha. 

“Mother,” he hisses back, blood rising in his cheeks. When A’chago shoots him an inquisitive glance, G’raha struggles to keep his voice even. “She’s saying you’re...strong.”

G’brhindhi’s sharp gaze flicks back up to G’raha’s. “ _Nii,_ ” she says indignantly. “ _Shra skaci muzhir mshtulk sil’berk. Frukhrodynny._ ” She smiles, then, like she’s sharing a secret with G’raha, and he covers his mouth and tries to compose himself. Even years apart can’t curb her antics. 

“Raha,” A’chago whispers, “Why is your mother telling me I’m fertile?”

 _Curse that thrice-damned echo,_ G’raha thinks. “It’s a compliment?” he offers with a pained smile. 

“You understand? No fun, then,” G’brhindhi sighs, clasping her hands behind her back. “I do not know why you are here, but thank you for accompanying my son, stranger.” She bows, stiffly, imitating an Eorzean bow with relative ease. 

G’raha slips his hand into A’chago’s and is rewarded when A’chago clings to him tightly. He’s been an idiot, he knows A’chago gets nervous around new people. He offers his hand as a lifeline and stares at his mother. “We’re together,” he says simply. 

To her credit, G’brhindhi doesn’t comment on their relationship, merely tilts her head. “Good bones,” she says. “Shame. We have many daughters looking for a husband. Remind me. What tribe are you?”

“A tribe, ma’am. A’chago Tia.”

G’bhrindhi makes a face. “Nevermind. Is good that you are _muzhirkjaerluhk._ ”

Whatever the echo translates that to can’t be good, because A’chago stiffens just slightly before relaxing again. “It’s not rude in our language,” G’raha tells him, and A’chago gives him a disbelieving look.

After G’bhrindhi seems satisfied, she beckons them to follow her to the settlement. Two of the archers move to take care of Lilana and Tycoon as she leaves. A’chago tries to stop them, but they bat away his hands and wave him along. All eyes are on them as they proceed, and G’raha can feel A’chago getting more and more tense as they walk. He reaches for A’chago’s hand again, but A’chago shoves his hand in his pockets. 

G’raha looks around the village, in awe of how familiar/not familiar it all is. At least a few of his sisters must have found husbands outside of the tribe, because he spies a gaggle of red-haired children staring at them from behind the children’s rhasht. A couple of dark-haired ones, too, sticking out like crows in a field of poppies. Perhaps his father took more wives in his absence. There’s plenty of women he either doesn’t remember or doesn’t recognize. 

G’bhrindhi comes to a stop in front of the Nunh’s rhasht. It’s the largest by far, draped with furs and skins and fabrics. G’bhrindhi holds up her hand as G’raha and A’chago approach the tent. “G’alir is entering the fifth circle. Only family may enter at this time.”

Fifth circle? G’raha’s stomach drops as he realizes just how close he and A’chago cut it.

A’chago rests a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll wait outside, okay?” he says, voice soft. G’raha wants very badly to not be here, or at least have A’chago with him as he enters, but it’s not worth breaking tradition over.

“Okay,” he answers, bringing one hand up to cover A’chago’s. His mother jerks her head to the side, and then two women approach them. They each take one of A’chago’s arms and begin to lead him away. 

G’bhrindhi notices the look on their faces. “Calm yourselves,” she says. “They are going to build a visitor’s rhasht and give him the…” she struggles, trying to translate. “The returnings. Raha will get them after, but there is no time. In, in.”

A’chago shoots one last glance to G’raha before allowing himself to be led away. G’raha turns back to his mother and the unmoving flaps of the rhasht. 

He has no idea what he wants to say. He has no idea what to _expect._ He hasn’t spoken to his father since he sent him away to Sharlayan. _Why?_ The question burns on G’raha’s tongue, filling his mouth with smoke. He doesn’t even know where to start. _Why did you call me home? Why did you send me away? What am I doing here?_

He takes a breath and pushes his way in. 

It’s dark inside, and the scent of burning herbs fills his nose. His eyes take a moment to adjust, and then he stills. 

At the northern side of the rhasht, directly across from the entrance, is his father’s bedroll, and on it, his father. The medicine woman smudges the air around him with Ilsabardian blue sage. Around his father’s body are small metal bowls that G’raha knows are filled with different mixtures: memory rushes back to tell him exactly what. The ones on either side of his father’s head will have lavender and river ice for clarity of mind, the ones by his heart will have drops of his family’s blood for progeny, the ones by his feet will have the bones of the last hunt to represent the bones of the ancestors he stands upon, and will eventually rejoin. G’raha would have been expected to find his own piece of ice to contribute, prick his own finger, and add a bone from his own hunt, if he’d been present for the first three circles. 

G’raha approaches his father’s side. The medicine woman pauses in her prayers, then carefully packs up her tools and shuffles out. Truly alone now, G’raha allows himself to look at his father for the first time in centuries. 

He looks dead already. It’s so shocking that G’raha can’t really decide how he feels about it, the only thing running through his mind is a dull acknowledgment of his father’s rattling breaths. His skin is paper thin and translucent, purple and blue splotched bruises covering him like grotesque flowers. Even in the darkness of the rhasht, G’raha can make out the webs of his blood vessels. 

His father gives a massive, choking inhale, and G’raha nearly calls out for his mother, so certain is he that he’s watching his father’s death without even getting a word in. Instead, G’alir settles, wheezing. His eyes open and he searches the ceiling blankly, both a watery, icy blue. 

“ _Yhys ssyn,_ ” his father croaks, “Where is my...son?” 

G’raha snatches his father’s hand with both of his own. “I’m here, dad,” he whispers. “I came. I’m here.”

His father’s head trembles weakly, like his muscles can’t quite cooperate with him anymore. G’raha gently tilts his father’s head so that they can look at each other. 

“Raha,” his father gasps. His mouth opens and closes, gaping like a fish. G’raha brings his father’s hand to his forehead and tries very hard not to cry. 

When G’raha was very young, his father used to swing him up onto his shoulders and tout him around as he went about his daily duties. Sometimes he’d even pause and ask G’raha his thoughts, and G’raha would answer as seriously as his five-year-old self could manage, and they’d spend entire days like that, the Nunh and his most trusted advisor. Other times his father would take him and his sisters out to the river bank and teach them how to tell when the land was getting tired of them, when it was time to migrate to their next location. Those days usually ended with he and his sisters attempting to tackle their father to the ground, or pull him into the river. They never succeeded, not once, not even with their combined strength. Their father had been unmovable, unshakable, a mountain. He’d laugh as they tried to climb atop his shoulders, hang from his arms, push him over. He’d seemed so invincible back then. 

The only time he’d ever seemed small was when he was on the riverbank, hands pressed to his face, absolutely exhausted of G’raha and gently asking him to remove himself from the tribe entirely. The ache of that memory reinvigorates his determination, and G’raha prepares himself for the long conversation ahead. 

G’alir breathes in, mechanical. A big, gasping, _IN-out_ that jerks his chest up and down. His fish mouth flaps. G’raha leans in close, ignores the scent of death in his father’s mouth, and tries to listen. 

“ _Your...blood...say...it...the...rites…_ ”

G’raha almost lets go of his father’s hand. Almost. He pulls back and stares at his father, somewhere between bewildered and betrayed. 

His father’s face twists in an awful grimace. “There’s no time,” he chokes. “The rites...Raha.”

G’raha doesn’t know what he expected. He thought...he thought that his father would have something to say to him, would have been happy to see him return. Would’ve welcomed him. They would’ve gotten a chance to talk, to really talk, and G’raha would’ve been able to stand up and dramatically sweep his arms wide and declare that he found a life for himself without his tribe, without his family, that he discovered the legacy of their eye, that he’s the hero he always dreamed of being and the rest of the tribe always scoffed at. But G’alir just wanted him to return to complete the rites and confirm his ascension to the next life. G’raha feels very horribly used. 

In a daze, G’raha turns and locates the ceremonial knife that rests beside the bowls by his father’s heart. The blood within is almost black in the candlelight. G’raha stares at it for longer than he should. He could put the knife down and walk away. He could leave his father to rot, a ghost, caught between this life and the next. He could do a lot of things. 

But looking at his father, his dying, helpless father, G’raha already knows what he’s going to do. He grips the knife until his knuckles blanche and presses the tip of the blade into the flesh of his index finger. Blood wells up instantly, and he presses his thumb against the last knuckle of his finger to encourage it to bleed more. 

“Your blood runs into mine,” he says quietly, “And giveth me life. My blood runs into yours, and grants you peace.” He holds his index finger over the bowl and watches as it drips into the pool, joining the rest of his family. 

G’alir, who’d been watching intently, sighs and lets his head fall back to stare at the roof of the tent. He closes his eyes peacefully. “Forgive me,” he wheezes. “Forgive me. There’s no time left at all.”

G’raha has never hated him more in that moment. He wants to rage, throw the bowls clattering to the floor, tear down the walls of the rhasht and burn them all, throw himself into the river and drown. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he takes his father’s hand once more and resumes his vigil. 

G’alir Nunh dies before the moon has finished its ascent in the sky. At some point, the rest of G’raha’s family had filtered in, his mother and his sisters and all his father’s wives, all of them surrounding G’alir as he passed. G’raha wishes it was painless. Even under all his fury, his indignation, he doesn’t want his father to suffer. 

It’s not painless. It’s horrible. G’raha is dozing, curled up by his father’s side like a kit, when he notices that the man’s breathing has changed. Instead of the steady, ragged breaths, they get harsher, exaggerated. He almost doesn’t realize what’s happening at first, and then his father stares into space like he’s seeing somebody that isn’t there, and G’raha tears out of the rhasht so fast he nearly trips over himself. 

“Mom!” he shouts, so loudly that all the tribespeople in the vicinity jerk their heads up and stare at him. He tries to shout again, but the words are catching in his throat. “Where’s the medicine woman? It’s happening.”

Immediately, a flurry of activity. G’bhrindhi appears out of nowhere, pushing past him and into the rhasht. G’raha stands like a sentry, waiting helplessly as his sisters run past him and follow his mother. For what, he doesn’t know. Permission? 

His eyes catch on A’chago, and the world seems to still. Without knowing quite how he got there, G’raha falls into his arms. He doesn’t give himself much more than a few seconds, but the feeling of A’chago’s hands on his back and the tight crush of his arms around him gives him enough strength to remember where he is and what’s happening. He pulls back, stares at A’chago helplessly. 

“Go,” A’chago says, gently pushing him back in the direction of the rhasht. G’raha nods, then dips back inside. 

Inside, the medicine woman is pouring a mixture into his father’s mouth and he’s choking on it. Something feral in G’raha wants to rip her away, but he controls himself, squeezing in between Zomkeqi and Markai to get closer. 

If he thought his father’s chest was heaving before, it’s ten times worse now. His chest jerks up, then falls back down, so violently that it looks like he’s getting resuscitated. G’alir’s eyes drift over them, shaking, unfocused. 

“Help him,” Markai wails, her voice teary and strained. “Oh, gods, help him!”

“Quiet,” the medicine woman snaps. “Your father is ascending.” She resumes praying, her voice rising in a crescendo as she finishes the last lines.

G’bhrindhi makes a choked noise, and buries her face in Khadu’s shoulder. His eldest sister rubs his mother’s back comfortingly, unable to tear her eyes away from their father’s shuddering body. 

G’raha doesn’t look. He can’t. He stares at his family instead, all of them crying, and he feels panic clawing at his chest. He’s not crying. Should he be crying?

G’alir’s breathing changes once more, a thick, mucusy sound that G’raha has learned to associate with death. His eyes snap to his father’s face, and the rest of the world falls away. 

His dad’s mouth is open, his eyes have rolled back, and he’s still jerking like a marionette on broken strings. It’s the most horrifying thing G’raha’s ever seen, worse than battling Hades alongside the Scions. More personal, he reckons, then internally laughs, a little unhinged, because _trust him_ to be comparing his highlight reel of traumatic experiences during a time like this. 

Markai’s slim hand grips his, and he’s jolted back to the present. His dad makes eye contact with him, and holds it. 

_What is he waiting for?_ G’raha thinks frantically. _Why is he looking at me?_

And just as quickly, he knows the answer. 

Forgiveness. His father is waiting for forgiveness. 

His vision finally blurs and tears spill down his face, bitter and angry and terrified, and so much _hurt._ He chokes them down and wipes his face roughly. He feels twelve years old. _Fine,_ he tells his father. _Fine. I forgive you. It’s over._

It’s not over. It’ll never be over. But what else can he do, faced with his dying father, than grant him mercy?

No sooner than he mouths those words at his father’s direction, the man’s eyes roll back in his head and he gives one last, shuddering exhale. And then he’s gone. 

He’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this turned out much longer, much sadder, and much more personal than I was anticipating...Some parts are taken almost directly from my own life, and I think it's turning into more of an exploratory/therapy style piece than anything else.   
> @ everyone who is going through something similar or has gone through something similar: i see you. i hear you. i know it hurts. one day we'll be okay.


	6. And Then The Ice Cracked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha wakes up, fights, and realizes things. Not necessarily in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK

G’raha doesn’t remember leaving the tent, bathing in the frigid river water, eating, or going to sleep in his father’s rhasht, surrounded by his siblings. He doesn’t remember the bonfire, or watching his tribe members lift his father’s body onto the pyre, or the way the lump in his throat had refused to dissolve even when it felt like his chest was straining with the effort of keeping himself together. 

No, all that G’raha remembers is waking up in the tent, walking to the river, and wading in until the icy water finally snapped through his dulled senses. 

_My father’s dead,_ he thinks, water seeping up his trousers and tunneling into his boots. _I thought I’d feel worse._

The storm that Henri had warned them about had hit sometime after the bonfire, a raging couerl in the middle of the night. _Bad omen_ , his more superstitious sisters had said, giving him a wide berth. He thought of lavender and bones and rites and felt nothing. 

The storm had torn through the village, nearly blowing rhashts down and turning the river into a swollen, bloated beast. The current pushes against his thighs so forcefully he has to bend at the waist to keep his footing. Regardless, he walks deeper. _It’s a good day for a swim,_ he thinks disjointedly. _The cold water will feel good._

“-aha!? Raha!” 

G’raha turns in the direction of the voice, confused. Everyone had been asleep when he’d left, there was no reason for any of his family members to be outside. 

A’chago splashes through the river to reach him, nearly slipping against the current multiple times. When he’s finally within range of G’raha he seizes him by his arms. “What the hell are you doing!?” he shouts, struggling to be heard over the sound of rushing water. When he pulls G’raha along, back toward shore, he follows without complaint. 

Once they’re on dry land, A’chago turns the full force of his bewildered fury on him. “What the fuck was that!?” he shouts, gesturing to the river. “You could’ve died!” Quieting down, his face twists and then he’s grabbing G’raha’s, turning his head this way and that to check for head injury. “Twelve, you scared the hell out of me,” he whispers. Once he’s adequately satisfied that G’raha isn’t physically injured, he lets go. 

“I apologize,” G’raha says reflexively. It seems like the right thing to do. The cold from the river is starting to set in, tiny tremors running up and down his body. He wraps his arms around himself in an attempt to ward off the chill. 

A’chago must notice, because he pulls G’raha into a hug and directs him toward their tent like he’s a kit. Tycoon and Liliana are tied up outside, both antsy but seem none the worse for wear after the storm. Tycoon nips at G’raha’s ears as he passes. 

Inside the tent, he lets A’chago divest him of his soaked clothing and wrap him up in A’chago’s thick blankets. “I really am sorry for frightening you,” he says from within the folds of the blanket. 

A’chago kisses the top of his head. “I know,” he murmurs. “It’s alright. You’re grieving.”

“Am I? This doesn’t feel like grief. I feel fine.”

He earns a look for that response, but G’raha meets it evenly. He thought there’d be more tears. He only cried once, and that was when his father was actively dying. His eyes have since been dry. 

He knows grief. Has crumbled under the weight of it, learned to bear the brunt of it. Has met its dead, desaturated, crystal-scoured reflection in the Ocular more times than he can count. He knows, vaguely, that if he were to look at himself he’d see it once more. He refuses to accept it. 

A’chago doesn’t reply, though, just heaves a great sigh and hands G’raha a change of clothes. G’raha shrugs them on half-heartedly and without moving too far from the blanket. “How are you?” he asks suddenly, a stray afterthought pushing its way out from his lips. “I trust you were accommodated?”

“I should really be asking _you_ that,” A’chago says with a wry smile. “Yes. They brought me to the riverside, smeared yellow paste on my forehead, and blessed me. Then I was mostly left to my own devices, so I joined some of the archers to go hunting.” He settles next to G’raha and G’raha leans into him, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and the cheap soap A’chago uses. “What about you? How are you?”

G’raha hesitates, staring at a stain on the wall of their tent. It could be blood from a hunt, or a fight. More likely it’s just mud. “Fine,” he finally says, breathing it out all at once. Feeling A’chago shift underneath him, he tacks on, “Not a publicity answer. I just don’t wish to talk about it.”

“Okay,” A’chago relents. “Okay. Is there anything I can do for you?” He wraps one arm around G’raha hesitantly, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to. It’s a wise move: G’raha isn’t sure whether he wants to scorn it or lean into it. 

In the end, he pushes himself further into A’chago’s space, curling up under his arm. “Just stay,” he says tiredly. 

He ends up falling asleep, and only rises when the sun is well into the sky. A’chago is snoring softly beneath him. They’d both slumped over, A’chago listing awkwardly to the left and G’raha pushing him down. Without waking him, G’raha leaves the tent. 

The rest of the village seems to be busying themselves-assorted tribe members skinning a fresh hunt, some watching over the children, others speaking softly amongst themselves as they make arrows. By the river, he sees his mother washing his father’s mat. 

He doesn’t know what compels him to walk over, but his feet take him before his mind catches up. He stands above her, unsure of what to do with himself. 

She doesn’t look up at him, not at first. Her fingers, scarred and calloused, scrub the myriad stains and grime out of the mat with a fat bristle brush. When she notices the worn boots in front of her, she finally raises her head. 

“Raha,” she says. A question is tucked into the end of her sentence, like she hadn’t expected to see her eldest son. Her brows furrow, and G’raha finds himself mirroring her expression. 

“Do you want help?” he asks, gesturing toward the mat. G'bhrindhi frowns, and a heavy weight descends upon the conversation. There’s too many years between them to be anything but strangers. G’raha never should have asked. What right does he have to insert himself in this family he can no longer call his own? He never should have come to Ilsabard. 

His mother blows a lock of gray hair out of her face with a huff. “There should be another brush in our rhasht.”

Her voice is emotionless, but it’s permission all the same. G’raha leaves, then returns with one hand wrapped tightly around the handle of a brush. He kneels next to his mother and scoops icy river water over a stain in the mat and begins to scrub. 

They spend minutes, maybe bells, side by side working in silence. It takes G’raha’s unpracticed hands twice as long to remove the same amount of stains his mother’s quick fingers do, but she doesn’t comment on it. 

After a while, she breaks the silence first. “He loved you. Every year on your nameday he’d leave a portion of the meal for you.” 

G’raha takes a deep breath. The story is too close to something A’chago had told him- _'I left gifts for you on White Day. And your nameday. And Starlight. It’s silly, I don’t know, it just felt like maybe...you’d somehow know. I hoped you’d somehow know.'_ -and it makes his heart ache. Thoughts of Lyna and the Crystarium building a shrine around his body on the First filter in next. He’s always leaving people behind. 

How would he have grown up if he’d chosen to stay? If his father hadn’t pushed him away? If he loved him, why did G’raha have to _leave?_

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says instead, putting a little too much pressure behind the brush. The fabric of the mat tears underneath the bristles. 

He kind of feels like he wants to cry, staring down at that tiny rip. He doesn’t. He and his mother stay by the riverside until the mat is pristine. 

That evening finds him seated around the bonfire squished between A’chago and Lufno, holding a hot Miq’a’bob in one hand and a flagon of ale in the other, but not really eating. The task seems monumental, and he lacks the appetite to force himself. He finds himself staring at Lufno out of mild curiosity: his brother looks just like his dad. They have the same sharp, straight nose, the same severe mouth. Lufno looks back at him in the odd, peering way only kits can. His dual-colored eyes gleam in the firelight. _He has an Allagan eye,_ G’raha realizes with a chill.

His entire life could have been Lufno’s. But it couldn’t have, could it? Lufno is only twelve summers old. He wouldn’t have been able to go on the Syrcus Tower expedition or seal himself in the tower. The secrets of Allag would have died with Doga and Unei. There would’ve been no one to wake up after the Eighth Umbral Calamity. Would Biggs have sent one of his own instead? Would Biggs _himself_ have traveled to the First? 

The thought sits with him uncomfortably. G’raha had become a much more important player in this star’s fate than he could have possibly imagined. In a way, his father saved the world by sending him away from home. It’s an unsettling though, and he forces his mind away from it. 

Khadu bursts out laughing across the fire and it draws his attention away from the existential. She and Shonnoci are conversing with their mother, and there are tears on her cheeks, but she’s smiling, too. 

“Raha,” his eldest sister says, turning to him. “Do you remember when we were kits, and dad decided to teach us how to ice fish?”

He does remember. He was young, maybe four or five to Khadu’s ten or eleven, and couldn’t get his balance on the ice. His father had carried him out like a bag with one hand fisted in the hood of his jacket. He’d felt like he was flying. Despite himself, he feels a grin thaw on his face. “You nearly gave him a heart attack,” he says quietly. 

Shonnoci smiles, a little tearily. “I was so excited to finally learn ice fishing, I forgot everything Dad taught me about checking the ice and crashed right through.” She wipes a stray tear from her eye and chuckles. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Dad that angry. Not even when the Garleans came asking for our best warriors to be drafted.”

His mother laughs, sharp and haughty. “As if Alir would allow himself to be shoved around by those Garlean dogs!” 

G’raha perks up. This must have happened after he left. 

G’bhrindhi continues. “Alir gathered his finest warriors, yes, and he told us, ‘Make them regret poking around the Gryphon’s nest!’” She laughs heartily now, slamming her open palm against her knee. “And we did! A whole legion, dead at our feet!”

Vhatmusi smiles. “Not quite a whole legion, but yes. We certainly sent those Garleans running.”

“How did you keep them from wiping you out?” A’chago asks, amazed. “Didn’t they come back to teach you a lesson?”

“One thing you learn quickly, Eorzean,” G’bhrindhi says with a knife-sharp grin, “Nobody mess with Gryphon tribe. Garleans say we are feral? We _show_ them feral!”

At this, G’raha’s family lets out a cheer, raising their ale above their heads. G’raha infers that the Garlean Empire might’ve been too unstable at that point to devote any further resources to subjugating a Miqo’te tribe: if this was during the rebellions in Ala Mhigo and Doma, they would’ve had to focus all their resources on fighting A’chago instead. Around him, the cheers die down. After his family settles, G’bhrindhi points her flagon toward G’raha. “Your father is stubborn. He never backed down from fight.” 

A’chago jostles his shoulder. “Neither does this one,” he says fondly. “He once threatened a war general just because the man’s tone pissed him off.”

G’raha blushes, smiling down at his own mug. What he told Ranjit that day was reckless, reckless in a way he hadn’t felt since he was twenty-four and with something to prove. He’d thought he’d left that overeager scholar behind when he sealed himself in the tower, but as always, A’chago somehow draws him out. 

He doesn’t know how he feels about his trademark stubbornness being a familial trait. Warm, he supposes. It’s a nice feeling. 

“Of course!” G’bhrindhi bellows, leaning back in her seat. “Gryphon blood runs through his veins! Bold, proud, stubborn-we tell all children, be like gryphon. Bold, proud, stubborn.” 

The conversation settles after that, splitting into three or four branches as his siblings pair off. G’raha is left watching them silently, A’chago nursing his drink beside him. They’re outsiders, but it doesn’t feel like they’re being left out. Just left alone. He tosses his Miq'abob into the fire as discreetly as he can. 

It must not escape A’chago’s notice, however, because he settles his arm around G’raha’s shoulders and knocks their heads together. “You okay?” he asks quietly. “How’re you holding up?”

G’raha heaves a sigh, clasping his flagon with both hands. “Been better,” he answers. “I don’t wish to speak more on the matter, if you don’t mind.” Part of him itches with irritation at A’chago’s smothering just as much as part of him craves it desperately. The tug of war that’s taking place behind his chest is making his head hurt. 

Suddenly everything, the campfire, the sound of conversation, even the pressure of A’chago’s weight on his body is too much. He twists out from under A’chago’s arm and uses one hand to rub at his temples. The ale sits awkwardly in his stomach, and he fears that he may throw it all up if he stays any longer. He stands up stiltedly, drawing the attention of his closest siblings. “I’m going to turn in early,” he says, holding his hands out to steady himself. His family looks at him quizzically. “Too much ale, I believe,” he adds. “Thank you for the meal.” He turns stiffly and leaves. 

He makes it back to the tent on his own, trying to ignore the sound of A’chago’s footfalls behind him. Something in his chest burns uncomfortably. He really, really doesn’t want to be around anyone else right now. 

“Please go elsewhere,” he calls out. “Or return to the festivities.” 

A’chago’s stride doesn’t falter. “I’m not going to hang out with your estranged family without you,” he says, tone of voice implying that such a thing should be obvious. “And I want to make sure you’re okay.”

G’raha swallows past the barbed wire in his throat and tries to keep his voice even. “I’m perfectly well.” 

“No pub-”

The emotions that have been stewing inside of him all day choose _this_ moment to erupt. G’raha knows it by the bubbling in his chest, the way his blood flashes hot, and the way his tail lashes back and forth. “It’s not a damn publicity answer, I just don’t know how else to get you to leave me _alone_ ,” he explodes, turning sharply on his heel to face A’chago. The burning in his chest is turning into an inferno, magma spewing out alongside his words. “I said I’m fine. I’m not a babe to be swaddled, I’m not helpless, I don’t need the Warrior of Darkness to come save me, I said I was fine and I meant it!” 

A’chago finally comes to a halt, stopping where he stands. G’raha is breathing heavily, stance threatening, ears flat, and _still_ A’chago does not shy away from him. Instead, his face crumples, pity etched over it like frost on glass. “I don’t think you’re mad at me,” he says quietly. “I think you’re avoiding something else.” 

Something in G’raha snaps. He blinks rapidly, first in disbelief, then against the tears of frustration that spring up out of nowhere. “Oh, you’re so fucking full of shit,” he snarls. “Please, Warrior. Tell your _humble disciple_ how you know him so much better than he knows himself.” 

__

__

“I didn’t say that, Raha,” A’chago starts, but G’raha doesn’t let him finish. 

“Don’t act like you know me. _Nobody_ knows me, not a single damn soul in this timeline or the next can say that they do! I have lied to each and every one of you, deserted and abandoned all of you in pursuit of my own destiny, set down roots and torn them back up at the drop of a hat, and I still don’t even know why I _came here!_ ” 

He finishes with a strangled cry, then stands up straight, shoulders slumping. “I thought reconnecting with my father would...coming back to Ilsabard would...make me _belong_ somewhere. Fill the hole. I should have known better, I have no family. I have no home.” 

Silence descends on them like a thick cloak of snow, and then A’chago meets him with twice as much fury. “How _dare_ you!?” he shouts, balling his hands into fists. The sheer volume of his voice startles G’raha out of his state, and he stares at his partner in shock. “How can you say that? How can you be so blind!?” He curses and stomps away, muttering in Thavnairian before circling back and marching up to G’raha. He pokes him in the chest, hard. “Don’t you _dare_ disrespect the people who love you like that again,” he says harshly, voice thick with tears. 

G’raha stares in stunned silence as A’chago roughly wipes his eyes before continuing. 

“You have a _thousand_ families, a _thousand_ homes. I’m sick of you acting like we don't count! Krile has loved you since she met you in Sharlayan. Does she count for nothing?” A’chago’s voice is low, deadly, and G’raha is compelled, for once, to listen. “The people of the First loved you since you arrived. Do they count for nothing?” 

“No, of course not,” G’raha begins to say, but A’chago interrupts him. 

“And I,” he says, voice breaking, “have fallen in love with you and every face you’ve worn. I loved you as the historian, the Exarch, and I love you as you are now, even though I’m _so_ fucking mad at you. I chased you across the rift, Raha, I fought your wars and saved your world just because you _asked. _Do I count for nothing?” Tears flood his eyes once more and the first one that escapes down the side of his face glistens in the moonlight. He steps closer to G’raha, grabs his hand and presses it to his chest. “I’m right here, you daft bastard,” he whispers. “Why can’t you see me?”__

____

G’raha curls his fingers around A’chago’s, hand pressed so tightly to A’chago’s chest he can feel his heartbeat. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what he _can_ say, he’s so rarely rendered speechless. 

____

If there’s truth in A’chago’s words, then he’s too exhausted to contemplate it. Instead, his gaze drops from the man’s face, to where their hands are connected and back up again. A’chago’s face is tearstained and open, and G’raha feels sick to his stomach knowing that he put that expression there. “I see you,” he says softly. 

____

A’chago chokes out a sob. “I don’t know how to _help you,_ ” he says miserably, clinging to G’raha’s hand. “You’re hurt, and I don’t know how to help you.” 

____

The way he says it makes it seem like it’s _G’raha’s_ fault, which-it is, isn’t it? He’s done nothing but isolate himself from A’chago this entire trip. He’s isolated himself from everyone. 

____

All at once, the puzzle lays itself out in his head, all the pieces put together. Is this how he treats the people he loves? He keeps them at arm’s length, then tells himself he’s alone? How many people have been in A’chago’s position, desperately trying to reach him, but he couldn’t _see?_

____

“Chago,” he says, voice frantic and thin, “I see you.” He cups A’chago’s jaw, looking him in the eyes. “I see you,” he insists. 

____

It feels like he’s just woken up. Like the world has shifted, imperceptibly, and now everything that once was hidden is now laid bare. Like he solved the formula, cracked the code, wrote the perfect thesis. “I see you,” he repeats, unsure of how else to get his point across. 

____

“Okay,” A’chago says, nodding in G’raha’s hands. He sniffs, goopy and thick. “Okay.” 

____

____

In the tent, curled under the blankets next to the love of his life, G’raha is unable to fall asleep. His mind is spinning with A’chago’s words. It couldn’t possibly be this simple, could it? Say a few magic words and poof, everything works out? There must be a catch. It doesn’t explain his father’s actions, of course, and it doesn’t stop G’raha himself from feeling unattached and uprooted, but…he’s unable to stop thinking about _a thousand families._ Could such a thing really be possible? People who belong everywhere? 

____

A’chago himself must be one of those people, G’raha realizes with a start. He has his family in Thavnair, but he also has House Fortemps, the Scions, the Resistance, the Doman Enclave, and a number of other places he can call home. 

____

So should it not stand to bat that G’raha can have his home here, _and_ with the Scions, _and_ on the First, _and_ in the post-calamity timeline? Is he not a product of all those experiences, all those people? Does he not love them like they’re family already? Does that love not survive across time? Distance? It was how he brought A’chago to the First. It was how G’raha himself was sent to the First. He often thinks of himself as collecting families, but having more than one does not make them _less._ Having more than one means he belongs to them all. He carries their legacy within him, in the shape of his memories and who he is, in his stubbornness, his affinity for cardamom, the comfort he draws from lavender and chives. Pieces of them exist in him. Their blood runs into his. 

____

He rolls onto his side and stares at A’chago’s sleeping form. His face is smooth and peaceful in rest, unburdened by the stress of the waking world. There are dark circles underneath his eyes.-dark enough to rival G’raha’s own. When did those appear? 

____

_I am not the only one who's suffered,_ G’raha thinks suddenly. He’d known this before, in the disconnected way that one knows other people live full lives beyond one’s purview, but it strikes him now as something he truly understands. He is not alone, especially not in his pain. He has never been alone. 

____

But how does he fix this aching in his chest? And where does he go from here? What is his purpose? What is he supposed to _do?_

____

He reaches out and brushes A’chago’s hair out of his face. He wants adventure. He wants A’chago. He wants, he realizes very suddenly, himself. To be reconnected with himself and to feel stability once more. He wants the confidence he had as the Exarch and the enthusiasm he had as a historian and the sure-footedness he had as both. 

____

If he is a product of his experiences, the people he’s loved, then perhaps his new purpose is to find out who that makes him now, in this new chapter of his life. Perhaps he is to wrap himself up in all of his fractions and build something new. _Perhaps,_ he thinks, rolling onto his back, _this wasn’t about my father or him sending me away at all. Perhaps this was about me sending myself away. ...How do I synthesize everything I was with everything I am?_ G’raha stares at the ceiling of the tent, pulse hammering in his throat like he’s just climbed every flight of the Tower on foot. _How do I bring myself home?_

____

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you for reading!


End file.
